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It Ean’t 



‘The speaker looked straight at the offending workman ’ 


p. 33. 


/ 


“IT ISN’T RIGHT; 




OB, 


.j^RANK jIoHNSON’S j^EASON. 


V^«T?iaTV| ^SvaC-.V\^ l^a-rnnlr 


“ And thou Shalt do that which is right and good in the sight of 
the Iiord : that it may be well with thee.”— D eut. vi 18 . 



2867 

C PHILADELPHIA: 

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, 

No. 1122 Chestnut Street. 


NEW YOEK: 599 BROADWAY. 

/S'^7 

K 

/ 



</- 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by the 

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, 

in the Clerk’s Ofi&ce of the District Court of the United States for 
the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 


/ 2,~'3'^bO/ 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTEE I. 

WOEKING UP AT SUNNY LeE — An UNEXPECTED AP- 
PEARANCE 7 

CHAPTER 11. 

Turned Out 31 

CHAPTER III. 

A Terrible Evening in Enfield’s Cottage — The 
Unknown Deliverer 56 

CHAPTER IV. 

An Unexpected Proposal, and its Consequences 77 

CHAPTER V. 

Ups and Downs in Business — A Formidable Rival 90 

CHAPTER VI. 

Harry Enfield’s “Stroke of Luck” — Will it 
prove to be one? 106 


1 * 


5 


6 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Frank Johnson’s Forebodings — Harry Enfield’s 
Way of Turning over a New Leaf 134 

CHAPTER VIII. 

A New Acquaintance, and a New Undertaking 164 

CHAPTER IX. 

First Hopes, and a First Misfortune 186 

CHAPTER X. 

A Committee of Ways and Means — Aunty’s Bas- 
ket ARRIVES 202 

CHAPTER XL 

Unwelcome Visitors — Frank finds out to whom 
THE Furniture belongs 219 

CHAPTER XII. 

The Return Home — A Friend’s Salutation — The 
First Sunday 238 

CHAPTER XIII. 

The Last Creditor satisfied, and Evil overcome 
WITH Good 256 


“IT ISN’T RIGHT;’ 


OR, 

FRANK JOHNSON’S REASON. 


CHAPTEE I. 

WORKING UP AT SUNNY LEE. — AN UNEX- 
PECTED APPEARANCE. 

f yOW, Aldridge, you must send some 
men up to my Louse the very first 
thing in the morning. Mrs. Philips 
and all my young fry are off to the 
sea-side; and, as the autumn is ad- 
vancing, they cannot make a very long stay 
there : yet I am most anxious to have these 
alterations completed during their absence. 
In fact, I mmt have all put in order before 
they return to Sunny Lee.” 


7 


8 


IT isn’t right; or, 


The speaker, Mr. Philips, was a wealthy, 
retired manufacturer, — a man of most ener- 
getic character and thorough business habits. 

He had been in a great measure the archi- 
tect of his own fortunes; for he had begun 
life with very little money. But he had a 
large capital in the way of sound sense and 
principle, and what might be called almost 
dogged perseverance. Of him people were 
wont to say that if Luke Philips resolved 
upon a thing it was as good as done. And 
doubtless the reason of this was that Luke 
Philips never commenced a thing without first 
thoroughly convincing himself that it was 
both right and desirable. When that point 
was settled to his satisfaction, he threw his 
whole powers both of mind and body into the 
work, and rarely failed to achieve success. 
While a weak or undecided man would have 
remained trembling on the brink of a diffi- 
culty, he would have boldly breasted — ay, and 
overcome — the opposition. 

Men of Mr. Philips’s character are not 


FRANK JOHNSON S REASON. 


9 


usually very patient with those of an opposite 
disposition. They like to make people see 
with their eyes, and believe as they believe, 
that difficulties will vanish into thin air if we 
only oppose them boldly. 

On the particular occasion alluded to, Mr. 
Philips had to deal with a man whose cha- 
racter differed widely from his own. Al- 
dridge, the builder, was one of your easy-going, 
somewhat dilatory persons, who strongly dis- 
like to be hurried or put out of their own 
beaten path. He was well-to-do in the world, 
— in fact, the wealthiest mechanic in Millfield; 
though he had not become such by his own 
exertions. Three generations of John Al- 
dridges had lived and died in the same spot 
and in the same line of business. All of them 
had been plodding, steady men, who placed 
perfect confidence in the old adage, “A rolling 
stone gathers no moss.” And as each was 
gathered to his fathers, he had carefully im- 
pressed this maxim on his son and successor 
that was to be. Each, too, had been able to 


10 


IT isn't eight; ok, 


say to his son, “I leave you more than my 
father left me,” as a practical proof, if such 
were needed, of the value of staying at home 
to do well, instead of going elsewhere in the 
vague hope of doing better. 

John Aldridge the fourth walked in the 
steps of his forefathers. He worked steadily 
enough, or, rather, he kept other people at 
work; but he presumed just a little upon his 
position. He knew that he had the best stock 
of timber in all Millfield ; and he often boasted 
that there were never any cracked panels 
or shrunken doors through his using green 
wood in their construction. Then, he had 
good hands to do his work, and he was quite 
aware that no other man in Millfield in his 
line of business could take an extensive con- 
tract, as they all wanted the needful capital. 
With all these advantages on his side, Mr. Al- 
dridge was rather accustomed to having people 
ask what time would suit him to do things, 
than to being dictated to with regard to the 
exact period he was to occupy about it. 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 


11 


Naturally enough, Mr. Philips’s 
sounded rather harshly in John Aldridge’s 
ears, and he began to demur. “I really don’t 
see how we can send men to Sunny Lee in 
the morning,” he said. ^‘We have a great 
many jobs on hand just now. How long did 
you say you could give us, Mr. Philips?” 

did not mention any time, Aldridge. I 
know that the alterations can be completed 
within a fortnight, if they are commenced at 
once and steadily gone on with. I have lost 
no time in coming to arrange with you; for 
Mrs. Philips only left Sunny Lee half an hour 
ago.” 

John Aldridge stood to consider about it 
for a minute or two, and still didn’t see 
how it could be managed.” The truth was, 
he wanted a little coaxing to undertake the 
work. 

But Mr. Philips was not the man to waste 
words; and he at once said, Well, Aldridge, it 
is for you to take the job and execute it forth- 
with, or to leave it altogether. I know if you 


12 


IT isn’t eight; oe. 


do undertake the work it will be well done, — 
a thing I could not be sure of with regard to 
any other Millfield builder. If, however, you 
have already too much on your hands, I must 
look elsewhere.” 

This speech mollified our workman not a 
little. It contained a compliment to himself; 
and he directly decided that it would be any 
thing but creditable were the richest man in 
Millfield to go out of the place for somebody 
to do his work. Therefore he replied, with 
something like alacrity, that he certainly was 
not afraid to compare work done by his hands 
with that executed by anybody else, either in 
town or country, and — what was more to the 
purpose — that Mr. Philips might count on see- 
ing his people at Sunny Lee on the following 
morning. 

^^That will do admirably, Aldridge. Now 
I will wish you a good day.” 

The builder returned a suitable answer, and 
was already on his way towards his home, 
when he again heard Mr. Philips’s voice: — 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 13 

‘^Just another word, Aldridge. Send some 
of your steadiest fellows to Sunny Lee. I 
don’t like to have any 'riff-raff about my 
premises.” 

My workmen are all first-class hands, sir.” 

“Ay, ay, — I know; but that is not what 
I mean. I needn’t explain myself; for I am 
sure you understand me perfectly. Good-day, 
again.” 

Mr. Philips walked briskly away, and John 
Aldridge turned homewards once more, to 
dinner. 

“What's the matter now, John?” said his 
good wife, as she caught sight of a cloud on 
the usually placid brow of her husband. 

“Some work to be done at Sunny Lee, my 
dear.” 

“No better man to work for than the 
master of that house, John. He likes a good 
article; but he never grudges a fair price, and 
is always prompt in his payments.” 

“That is all true enough; but he wants his 

alterations begun and ended in less time than 
2 


14 


IT isn’t right; or, 


it would take another man to decide on having 
a thing done at all. And you know I hate to 
be hurried.” 

John Aldridge’s active little wife would 
have been well contented to see more persons- 
like Mr. Philips in this respect. She and the 
master of Sunny Lee. were kindred spirits, 
and, with regard to her own domestic matters, 
Mrs. Aldridge was just the woman to finish 
while another would only have planned. But 
she well knew her husband’s easy-going fash- 
ion, and, while she respected those worthy and 
admirable points in his character which made 
him a good husband and father, she often 
wished that he had been gifted with a little 
more energy. Yet she had too much good 
sense to lecture or worry John because his 
character was the very opposite of her own. 
So, now, though perfectly conscious that if 
Mr. Philips considered the time allowed for 
the work sufficient it really was so, she did 
not venture to tell her husband as much, but 
only said, — 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 15 

^‘Well, John, can you manage to accommo- 
date Mr. Philips?” 

have promised to try; but there’s some- 
thing else. Mr. Philips is particular about 
the class of workmen to he employed in his 
house. He says he will have no riff-raff at 
Sunny Lee. I know what he means, well 
enough. Two or three of my fellows are 
any thing but steady in their conduct or choice 
in their language ; and I really can’t pretend 
to insist on their picking their words. If 
they only do rrvy work thoroughly, I must shut 
my eyes and ears to little matters of that 
sort.” 

Now, Mrs. Aldridge had always thought 
that her husband kept his eyes shut to many 
things that he ought to have noticed, — more 
especially with regard to the morality of his 
work-people. But, when she had ventured to 
say a word or two, John had been any thing 
but pleased, and frankly told her that, as he 
did not interfere with her domestic arrange- 
ments or presume to dictate as to the man- 


16 IT isn’t right; or, 

agement of her two serving-maids, she must 
please to let him rule in his own particular 
department. 

Your easy-tempered men are usually the 
most jealous of any interference: — probably 
because a hint as to duty stirs up their slum- 
bering consciences, and makes them feel that, 
after all, there is something culpable in main- 
taining a character for good nature at the 
expense of right and simply to encourage 
natural idleness. Good nature is,- indeed, 
often only another name for indolence. 

There was a little pause in the conversation 
after John Aldridge informed his wife of Mr. 
Philips’s requirements, and then Mrs. Aldridge 
suggested, should let Frank Johnson go to 
Sunny Lee, for one. He is sure to conduct 
himself properly.” 

^^Ay, there is Frank. He is all right 
enough. I wish all the rest were like him. 
But Harry Enfield must go too, if the work 
is to be done ; and very likely he may set off 
on a drinking-bout before the week is out. 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 17 

Besides, I know lie’ll bridle that saucy tongue 
of bis for no man living.” 

I think Harry Enfield’s language is worse 
than saucy, John. He is shockingly profane; 
and if it were not for his poor wife and chil- 
dren, who already suffer too much through his 
faults, I should heartily wish that he was never 
going to set foot in your workshop again. As 
to bridling his tongue for any man, that is out 
of the question, since his own sense of right 
is not sufficient to make him keep his lips 
clean from the horrid language he is accus- 
tomed to indulge in.” 

“My dear, I really cannot help Harry 
Enfield's profaneness. It is not my business 
to preach to him about it. I take care that 
he does his duty by me; and I have talked to 
him about neglecting his wife and family. 
For their sakes I continue to employ him; 
and, to do the rascal justice,” added Mr. 
Aldridge, in a less testy tone, “he almost gets 
through as much work as two when he gets 
his hands steadied again. As I said before, 

B 2-» 


18 


IT isn’t right; or, 


he must go to Sunny Lee, for one. I under- 
stand that Mr. Philips will be off in the morn- 
ing to Ilfracombe, where he will join his 
family, and that he will not return for a week 
at any rate. By that time we shall have got 
on a long way with the alterations.” 

Mr. Aldridge thought he had now settled 
all things admirably; and on the following 
morning a troop of workmen, having been 
duly instructed, made their appearance at 
Sunny Lee, and commenced the business by 
pulling to pieces, or, so to speak, turning the 
house out of the windows. Among these 
were the two named by the master, — Frank 
Johnson and Harry Enfield. 

The former was especially noted for his 
quiet, orderly conduct and steady attention to 
business ; and the latter, as will have been 
already gathered from the conversation related 
above, possessed admirable skill as a work- 
man, but no stability. 

Often, very often, when business was press- 
ing and when even quiet Mr. Aldridge was 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 19 

stirred into something like activity, Harry 
would desert his bench, leave plane and chisel 
lying idle thereon, and be constant only in 
his attendance at his favourite ale-house. 
Then, having spent all his earnings and left 
himself penniless, having made his wife un- 
happy and displeased his master, Harry would 
at length begin to think of resuming work. 

Harry Enfield’s life was, indeed, passed in 
alternate fits of drunken folly and fierce la- 
bour; and as evil habits are rarely weakened 
by time, but gain strength by being indulged 
in, he formed no exception to the general rule. 
The intervals between these fits of dissipation 
grew shorter and shorter, and every day this 
man, who might have been a truly valuable 
member of society, became less worthy of 
trust, more under the dominion of his besetting 
sins. And he had not the excuse — a poor one 
at best — which some men have for forsaking 
their homes. His wife was a healthy and 
industrious woman, who made every penny 
of Harry’s earnings go as far as possible, and 


*20 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


wlio often added to their little income by her 
own exertions. 

Unfortunately, though, she found out that 
the more she worked and earned, the less her 
husband brought in, and that he seemed to 
think her labours rendered exertion on his 
part less necessary. Is it wonderful that 
such conduct soured the poor woman’s temper 
and unnerved her willing hands ? 

I could work night and day with him if 
it were needful, or for him and the children 
if he were laid up by sickness; but it is hard 
to see him act as he does,” poor Mary Enfield 
would say, as she saw the light of wedded 
love extinguished in her husband’s breast, and 
a father’s duty forgotten, for the sake of 
sensual indulgence. 

Still, she is in one sense a happy woman 
who can say, “Though my husband has gone 
astray, though he neglects his own home, and 
sees no attraction in his wife, no charm in the 
light of his fireside, and though he hears no 
music in his children’s voices, but too often 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 21 

drowns the sound with bitter words, yet I am 
not to blame. I have performed my duty; I 
have been a help-meet in the true sense of 
the word, and my conscience is clear.” Poor 
Mary Enfield could say this; and often, when 
all else was dark around her, she was sup- 
ported and enabled to struggle with her 
arduous lot by the precious thought that she 
was only continuing in the path of duty, 
wherein she had hitherto been mercifully 
upheld. 

Frank Johnson was less fortunate in one 
sense. He had a good wife; but, unhappily, 
she was a delicate woman, whose ill health 
was a source of very serious and frequent 
expense. With all the will in the world to be 
careful, and assist her husband in his endea- 
vours to get a little beforehand, she was not 
able to do so. A little extra exertion when 
about her household work, undertaken for 
the purpose of saving, was often the cause of 
an illness which unfitted her even for lighter 
labours. So, though Frank plodded steadily, 


22 


IT isn’t EiaHT; OR, 


and made extra wages by working over-time, 
be grew no richer, but always found that it 
required all he could scrape together to supply 
the wants of an ailing partuer and a rapidly 
increasing family. 

Such were the relative positions of two 
of the workmen who went up to Sunny Lee 
together on that September morning. 

Harry Enfield had just resumed work again, 
after an unusually long absence from the shop ; 
and his mind was much more occupied by his 
recent orgies at the ale-house than by his 
present employment. 

One of the men, happening to observe En- 
field’s trembling hands, made a jesting remark 
about the penalty he had to pay for past in- 
dulgence. “Your missus and the youngsters 
don’t sufi’er quite by themselves when you 
carry on in such a wild fashion. Why, man, 
your hands are as shaky as a reed in a De- 
cember wind ! I wouldn’t have mine in that 
state for all the world. Just look at Enfield’s 
trembling hands, Johnson.” 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 23 

Frank Johnson gave a slight glance towards 
Harry, but resumed his work without mak- 
ing any remark. He was too well aware of 
Harry’s irritable temper to allow himself to 
say a word which might excite it; and he 
gave a warning glance towards the other 
speaker, as if he would beg him to make 
no allusion to Enfield’s evident unfitness for 
labour. 

But Enfield was just in the mood to be half 
boastful, half irritable towards^ his compa- 
nions, whether they were forbearing or other- 
wise; and, when in such a mood, Johnson, as 
the most peaceable of all his work-fellows, was 
pretty sure to be the one with whom he would 
try to pick a quarrel. Frank’s silence was 
therefore more annoying than his speech 
would probably have been ; and ’ Harry said, 
in a sneering tone, ^‘You mustn’t fancy that 
Johnson will bestow a look or a word on a re- 
probate fellow like me. He is a long way too 
good to take his pipe and his glass, or even to 
talk to those who do. For my part, I don’t 


24 


IT isn’t eight; or, 


see any good in life if one doesn't enjoy it;" 
and forthwith he began to chant, in a loud 
but rather tremulous voice, a song in praise 
of sociality and good-fellowship. 

Frank and the other man looked round, to 
see if any person was within hearing; for 
Mr. Aldridge had given them all an especial 
charge to be quiet and well behaved while 
within the walls of Sunny Lee. Then the 
former said, gently, believe, Harry, I enjoy 
life as much you do, — though in a different 
fashion. I Lave my home pleasures, which 
are very precious to me; and I can look back 
with some satisfaction on the evenings spent 
by my own fireside." 

^^Very delightful, I dare say, Mr. Sober- 
sides : only, you see, I look at things in a dif- 
ferent light. I don’t choose to be put in lead- 
ing-strings by any woman; and I should be 
very sorry to be tied to an apron-string, as 
you are by that white-faced wife of yours." 

The blood mounted to Frank Johnson's 
forehead as Harry made this allusion to his 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 


25 


wife’s ill health, and he was tempted to return 
a hasty reply. But he succeeded in checking 
the angry words that trembled on his lips, and 
replied, — 

It isn’t right in you, Harry, to taunt me 
about what is no fault of mine. I can tell 
you, it often makes me sad enough to see my 
poor wife’s white face, as you call it, and to. 
think that its paleness is caused by suffering. 
And I don’t know,” he added, with natural 
warmth, “that there is any thing unmanly 
in my caring for the woman whom I pro- 
mised before God to love and cherish.” 

Frank Johnson was not thinking of Harry’s 
opposite course of conduct when he made this 
remark. Neither had he any intention to 
provoke his excitable companion by an allu- 
sion to the duty of a husband. But Harry 
chose to consider Frank’s speech as an in- 
direct attack upon himself, and, accordingly, 
replied, in a sneering and angry tone, — 

“ Of course you are a model husband, and I 
am a drunken brute. Well, if you like, you can 

3 


26 


IT isn’t right; or, 


keep your wife in idleness, and make a slave 
of yourself to support her in her fine-lady 
airs; but for my part, I say, let the women 
work. I slave hard enough when I’m at it, 
and then I let my missus take a turn at the 
mill. Turn and turn about’s fair : isn’t it, eh, 
Mr. Sobersides?” 

Frank Johnson did not wish to be put out 
of temper by Harry’s sneers; at the same 
time, he found it hard to keep down his rising 
indignation at the attack upon his ailing wife. 
His flushed face told of the internal conflict, 
— which the other workman also perceived. 
This last was anxious to prevent any disagree- 
ment : so he said, “ Take no notice of Harry, 
Frank. He says ill-natured things ; but 
never mind. Hard words break no bones, 
and, for a comfort, thy wife isn’t here to listen 
to his sneers. We know what he is, and we 
know what thou art, lad; and I’ll be bound to 
say there isn’t a woman in all Millfield but 
what would sooner be Frank Johnson’s wife 
than Harry Enfield’s.” 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 27 

Enfield’s reply to this was a string of oaths, 
and the angry question, ^‘What did he begin 
about his marriage promise, and all that, for, 
unless it was to vex me?” 

‘‘1 never thought of you in the matter, 
Harry,” returned Frank, quietly. ^Ht was 
you that spoke of my poor wife’s white face in 
a taunting way; and it isn’t right of you to 
talk of her in such a manner. I can bear 
sneers that only touch myself; but I can’t 
stand and hold my tongue when you attack 
her.” 

Eight, lad,” interposed the third workman. 

Stand up for thy wife ; and you, Harry, do 
let people alone. Frank never would have 
said a word to thee if thou hadn’t begun it. 
And as to his making mention of his marriage 
promise, why, surely there was no harm in 
that. Thou shouldn’t be so ready to fit caps 
on to thy own head.” 

Frank could scarcely help laughing at the 
cool manner in which his companion, Dick 
Halliday, placed the dispute in a right light. 


28 


IT isn't right; or. 


But lie was careful not to let Harry see his 
countenance; and the latter, not mindful to 
carry on a discussion in which he evidently 
got the worst of it, again commenced singing 
a low song, the principal feature in which was 
its lack of sense and its profanity. 

^‘Come, Harry,” interposed Dick Halliday, 
once more, “ keep that song for the tap-room 
of the Wheatsheaf, — there’s a good fellow. I 
fancy these walls don’t often echo back such 
language as thou’rt making them ring with. 
Besides, Mr. Aldridge was very particular in 
asking thee to keep a civil tongue in thy head 
while thou wert under Mr. Philips’s roof. It 
isn’t right to go on so as soon as the master’s 
back’s turned.” 

It isn't right — is it ?” returned Harry, in 
a mocking tone, and with an additional string 
of coarse and profane words. ‘‘That’s Frank 
Johnson’s logic. He always says, ‘It isn’t 
right.’ ” 

“Well, Frank Johnson isn’t ashamed to 
own his reason; and you can’t say that it is 


FRANK Johnson's reason. 29 

right to use such language, — to say nothing of 
neglecting Mr. Aldridge s express wish.” 

‘^And pray why isn't it right, Mr. Pious? 
Just give us chapter and verse for it. Treat 
us to a sermon ; though, for my part, I shall 
want a pint of beer to help it down, if I am 
to listen.” 

'^And I can give you chapter and verse, 
Harry ; though, mind you. I'm not in the habit 
of quoting from the Bible every minute, or 
preaching either. I hope I reverence the 
word of God too much to have it always on 
my tongue. I would rather show by my life 
that I had it in my heart. But, as you say 
you want chapter and verse to prove that it 
isn't right to use such language as you do, 
you shall have it. There's no need to go any 
further than the third commandment to do 
that ; but I never can hear you use such lan- 
guage as you do without thinking of the 
words, ^ He clothed himself with cursing like 
as with his garment.' I don't say this in any 
ill will, Enfield ; but I do wish, for your own 

3 ^ 


30 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


sake, that you would refrain from making the 
walls of every place we work in echo with 
curses.” 

So you think I shall pick my words to suit 
your squeamish ears, do you?” 

don’t want you to please me, Enfield. 
Our master — who has been a good one to you 
— asked you as a favour to be quiet and 
decent in your conduct and speech while you 
were under Mr. Philips’s roof.” 

^'Old Philips is far enough away by this 
time; and if he were close beside me, I’d see 
him " 

What might have ended Harry Enfield’s 
speech cannot be told ; for, to the astonishment 
of all the workmen, Mr. Philips entered the 
apartment ! 


/. 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 


31 


CHAPTEK II. 

TURNED OUT. 

f HE somewhat eccentric master of 
' Sunny Lee proved, by his abrupt 
entrance, that he was a good deal 
nearer than Harry Enfield supposed. 
It is true he had intended to start 
by an early morning train to join his wife and 
family at the sea-side ; but, on second thoughts, 
he resolved to stay and see whether dilatory 
John Aldridge would really keep his word 
and commence the work immediately. Thus 
it chanced that, as he satr taking his breakfast 
in an apartment adjoining that in which the 
three workmen were employed, he overheard 
nearly the whole of their conversation. It 
was with difficulty he restrained his indig- 


32 


IT isn’t eight; or, 


nation as Harry Enfield’s first outbreak fell 
on ills ear; for be was displeased not only at 
the profane speaker, but at the employer who, 
after his especial warning, had sent such a 
man to Sunny Lee. However, he did restrain 
himself until his own name was brought in, 
in the manner related; and then he suddenly 
made his appearance among the astonished 
group. 

^^Well, sir,” said he, addressing Enfield, 
^'old Philips is near enough for you to see now, 
I hope. He has heard you for some time past, 
with no little disgust, but still more regret, to 
think that the blessed gift of speech should 
be thus abused. Man, man ! do you ever con- 
sider that when the power of speech was 
bestowed upon us, it was not given that we 
might corrupt the very air with blasphemy, 
but that we might u4ter prayer and praise to 
God, and words of love, consolation, kindness 
and good will to our neighbours, as well as to 
assist us in transacting the necessary business 
of life?” 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 33 

The speaker looked straight at the offending 
workman, and Harry himself was for ojice 
abashed by the stern dignity of ^^Old Philips,” 
as he had called him but the minute before. 
He began to mutter a sort of apology for his 
coarse language, — said the other fellows were 
always aggravating him, and then he got all 
the blame; but that if he had known Mr. 
Philips was so near 

He was not allowed to finish the sentence. 
“So you would have condescended to abstain 
from turning your lips into a channel for 
curses, out of regard for my ears, sir : would 
you? I ought to be very much obliged to you, 
I suppose; but I have no wish for such absti- 
nence on my own account. Man, man !” added 
Mr. Philips, “do you consider the meaning of 
your poor apology? It simply amounts to 
this : that, while you might' have bridled your 
profane tongue for the sake of advancing your 
earthly master's interests, or because I was 
within hearing, you would not have denied 
yourself the utterance of one foul and bias- 


34 


IT isn’t eight; or, 


phemous word in obedience to the command 
of Him who made us both, and who at this 
moment holds our lives in his hand. But 
my walls shall not ring with soun-ding oaths. 
Only a few hours since, they echoed back the 
tones of my youngest child, who was learning 
its first prayer at its mother’s knee. You, 
sir, may carry your blasphemy elsewhere.” 

Mr. Philips was in earnest. It mattered 
not to him that by sending away Harry En- 
field from Sunny Lee he retarded the progress 
of the alterations he was so anxious to com- 
plete, and deprived himself of the services of 
one out of the three pair of hands that — 
whatever the tongues might do — were all 
capable of advancing his wishes. Hay, more : 
he knew that Mr. Aldridge would seize upon 
this act of his and hold it up as an excuse for 
any amount of short-comings on the score of 
punctuality. But he had weighed these mat- 
ters before he spoke, and was prepared to take 
the consequences. It was a principle of his 
to lose no opportunity of discountenancing 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 35 

vice or impiety, in whatever form it might 
present itself ; and he was equally anxious to 
encourage whatever was right. Mr. Philips, 
therefore, only acted up to the principles he 
professed, and not from a momentary fit of 
ill temper excited by the workman’s disre- 
spectful mention of himself, when he insisted 
on Harry Enfield’s departure. 

It was in no amiable mood that Enfield threw 
his tools into his satchel and departed from 
Sunny Lee. Probably, had not both his money 
and credit been exhausted, he would have be- 
taken himself to the tap-room of the Wheat- 
sheaf; but, as he knew there was already a 
long score chalked up against him, and no 
chance of its being lengthened, he was fain to 
keep outside its walls. Inwardly, he vowed 
vengeance against that smooth-tongued Frank 
Johnson; outwardly, he vented his wrath on 
the only ones who were compelled to endure 
it, — his wife and children. On his way from 
Sunny Lee he met Mr. Aldridge, who was 
just going thither. 


36 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


Well, Harry, have you made a start up at 
Mr. Philips's?” asked Mr. Aldridge. ^‘But 
how’s this? You’re coming away with your 
tools in your hand. It isn’t dinner-time yet, 
man. I’m afraid you are off to the old haunt, 
Harry; and you really are using me very 
badly.” 

Mr. Aldridge looked as much offended and 
spoke as sternly as was consistent with his 
general determination “not to be put out of 
the way;” and Harry winced a little under his 
evident displeasure. 

“We made a beginning at Sunny Lee, sir,” 
he returned, “and I have made an ending; 
but it isn’t my own fault. Mr. Philips has 
sent me off. I’m too plain-spoken for him. 
But I wasn’t off to the Wheatsheaf, either ; for 
I was on my way to find you and see where I 
had better go now.” 

Mr. Aldridge understood how the matter 
was, without further explanation, and in his 
own mind he thought Mr. Philips too par- 
ticular. After a rebuke which he intended 


FEANK JOHNSON S EEASON. 


37 


to be very severe, but at which Enfield only 
smiled the moment his back was turned, Mr. 
Aldridge told the man where to go to join 
more of his comrades at another job, and 
then passed on. I wish," thought he to him- 
self, “that Harry had held that unruly tongue 
of his until the old gentleman was out of 
hearing. However, if the work isn't done 
at the time, I have a capital excuse of his 
own furnishing." 

The builder did not trouble himself with 
the thought of that other Being whose ear 
and eye are alike open to mark our doings. 
He only thought of Harry Enfield’s conduct 
as it was likely to affect his own business, 
and consoled himself with the idea that all 
beyond this was Harry's look-out, — not his. 
Certainly, he heartily wished Mr. Philips at 
Ilfracombe with his wife and children, or in 
any other place out of sight and hearing. 

But Mr. Philips was not to be put out of the 
way so easily. Instead of joining his family 
immediately, he sent a letter to tell his wife 

4 


38 


IT isn’t KiaHT; OE, 


slie must not expect him just yet, and stayed 
to superintend the alterations. Not all the 
noise and general topsy-turviness that charac- 
terized his home could drive him away. He 
might have spent his whole life amid the clat- 
ter of hammers, planes and saws, for any thing 
he seemed to care for the noise; and he was 
continually popping in among the work- 
people when he was least expected, — to their 
great amusement. Frank Johnson and Dick 
Halliday were the principal men there ; and, as 
they were accustomed to work remembering 
in whose presence they always stood, the com- 
pany of Mr. Philips caused them neither 
inconvenience nor alarm. 

While Frank Johnson was thus employed, 
Mr. Philips, who had been greatly struck by 
symptoms of sterling good qualities in the 
man, made many inquiries about him, and 
heard nothing but what confirmed the opinion 
he had previously formed. Among others 
with whom Mr. Philips had a talk about 
Frank, was Dick Halliday. “You and John- 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 39 

son appear to be good friends,” said he. “I 
think he seems a decent, steady fellow.” 

capital fellow, sir,” said Dick, turning 
his honest eyes towards the owner of Sunny 
Lee. As to being friends with Frank, I don’t 
know who could help it, except such a chap as 
that Harry Enfield, who won’t be friends with 
anybody, least of all with himself.” 

^‘True. And Johnson’s wife is a worthy 
woman, too, I hear.” 

She is, indeed. She has poor health, but 
that isn’t her fault. It’s a misfortune to them 
both; though Frank is not the man to say a 
word about that. He always makes the best 
of things; and he a good husband, if you 
like. I never saw him flush up so about any 
thing as he did that day we first came to 
Sunny Lee, when Enfield was sneering at 
Mrs. Johnson’s white face.” 

^^Ah, I remember. I heard something of 
that as I sat in the next room. And, by the 
way, I caught some sneer about ^ Frank John- 
son’s reason.’ What was meant by that?” 


40 


IT isn’t right; or, 


“ Why, you see, sir, Frank is a very quiet 
fellow, and, in a general way, a man of few 
words. But one of his particular expressions 
is, ‘It isn’t right.’ That’s always his speech 
if he wants to remonstrate with anybody about 
what he considers is contrary to our duty to 
God or our neighbour. He doesn’t reason or 
argue with a lot of words; but when he has 
once made up his mind that a thing isn’t 
right, he can neither be led nor driven to have 
any thing to do with it. He is as resolute as 
a lion, sir. So it is just from his dogged, de- 
termined way of saying those two or three 
words, and his frequent use of them, that 
we have got to call them ‘Frank Johnson’s 
reason.’” 

“And a very good reason too, and a capital 
guide for a man’s conduct. But now about 
these doors, Halliday: do you think they 
should open outwards, or inwards?” 

With this question Mr. Philips turned the 
subject to business-matters, and appeared as 
though he had forgotten all about Frank 


FRANK JOHNSON S REASON. 


41 


Johnson. But the future proved that he had 
not made so many inquiries without a special 
motive. 

Mr. Philips made two or three brief visits 
to Ilfracombe ; but his good lady and children 
grumbled not only that they had so little of 
his company, but that for once he had failed 
in carrying out his resolution. The altera- 
tions at Sunny Lee were not completed by the 
time first named, and the trees were nearly 
bare of leaves before Mrs. Philips was enabled 
to return to her home at Millfield. 

While the work at Sunny Lee was going on, 
Frank Johnson and Enfield saw very little of 
each other, as the former found constant em- 
ployment under Mr. Philips’s roof. They did 
meet now and then ; and Frank had to endure 
occasional taunts and gibes from the angry 
man, whose comrades, knowing his hasty tem- 
per, had found amusement in reminding him 
of his speedy expulsion from the ‘‘ great 
house.” Perhaps but for this foolish inter- 
ference Enfield’s wrath would have died out; 

5 * 


42 


IT ISNT eight; oe, 


but, as it was, the anger which was at first 
as a spark was fanned into a flame. In the 
course of time the men were again labouring 
together in the home workshop; and then 
Frank found that Harry was doing his worst 
in order to render it positively untenable by 
him. He had found out the one sore point 
with Frank; and he was either continually 
uttering covert taunts with regard to Mrs. 
Johnson, or else condoling with him in mock- 
ing words respecting his sickly and expensive 
help-meet. It was in vain that Frank tried 
to propitiate his quarrelsome neighbour. ^Ht 
isn’t right,” was sufficient to keep the one 
from doing wrong, but it could not sway the 
other; and at length Frank was driven to re- 
quest the interference of Mr. Aldridge. 

“I’ve tried my best to agree with Enfield,” 
he said. “I’ve put up with so much abuse, 
and so many taunts, that I believe the other 
men think I’m a coward, because I try to 
keep peace and will not quarrel. But you 
know the old saying, sir, that ^continual 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 43 

dropping will wear out the hardest stone;’ 
and my patience is pretty nigh worn out by 
constant trial. I don’t mean to brawl, and 
make a blackguard of myself; neither will I 
answer him in his own style, because ^it isn’t 
right;’ but this I have made up my mind to : — 
if I can’t work peaceably in your shop, I 
must do it elsewhere, sir; though I should be 
sorry to leave an employer who has always 
used me well.” 

Mr. Aldridge opened his eyes very wide at 
this uncommonly long speech from Frank 
Johnson. “Why, 'Frank, my good fellow, 
what is all this about? Why can’t you be 
friends ? How can you expect me to interfere 
with your quarrels ? It really is very vexa- 
tious for me to be brought into the thing at 
all. Make it up with Enfield, now, — do, — and 
let’s hear no more about it.” 

As Mr. Aldridge spoke, he put on the air 
of vexation which showed that he deemed 
Frank’s appeal in the light of a personal in- 
jury. He would have turned away and pooh- 


44 


IT isn’t right; or, 


poohed the whole affair; but Frank had made 
up his mind that this wasn’t right, and his 
earnest tones arrested Mr. Aldridge in spite 
of himself. 

have already told you, sir, that I wish 
to be friendly with all my mates, and why 
this cannot he brought about. I did my best 
before I came to you, and I am here because 
I considered you the proper person to appeal 
to to preserve peace and order on your own 
premises. I say it in no disrespect, sir, but 
I am determined that if I cannot have liberty 
to go quietly about my duty, without having 
to fight for mastery over a quarrelsome man 
or to outbrawl him in order to silence his 
taunting tongue, I will seek employment some- 
where else. And I have served you faith- 
fully for a good many years.” 

“To be sure, Frank; certainly. A better 
man I would not wish to have; and, if an 
extra shilling or two a week would mend 
things, I wouldn’t mind advancing your wages 
a trifle.” 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 45 

The colour rose in Frank’s face as he heard 
this proposal. It seemed to sound almost 
like an insult. It grated on his ear as would 
the direct offer of a bribe. ‘‘It isn’t that, 
sir; it isn’t that,” he returned. “I am satis- 
fied to be paid the same as other men of the 
same class as myself. Not but what I find 
use for all I can earn; but I had no such 
motive, in speaking to you, as that of obtain- 
ing higher pay. All I ask is that you will 
use your authority, as master, to keep order 
among your men, so that those who would 
live at peace may not be forced into quarrels 
whether they will or no.” 

While Frank spoke, he looked in Mr. Al- 
dridge’s face, and could not help being struck 
with the perplexed expression visible upon it. 
He knew Mr. Aldridge was sensible that what 
he had complained of needed redress ; but he 
also knew how he hated to be troubled, and 
how wanting he was in moral courage. Is it 
wonderful that, as the workman thus read his 
character in his face, his own sentiment of 


46 IT isn’t eight; oe, 

respect towards his employer was greatly 
weakened ? 

^‘Well, well, I’ll see about it, Frank. You 
may depend upon my speaking to Enfield,” 
said Mr. Aldridge, after a brief conference 
with himself. ‘^And I hope I shall hear no 
more talk of your leaving me. I can’t spare 
such a man as you.” 

‘‘And I should be as sorry to leave; but — 
you know, sir ” 

“ Yes, yes, I understand, Frank,” inter- 
rupted Mr. Aldridge, impatiently; and Frank, 
seeing 4hat he was not inclined to hear any 
more, respectfully bade him good-night. 

This conversation took place in John Al- 
dridge’s own house, after working-hours, and 
Mrs. Aldridge had heard the whole of it. 
While Frank was present, however, she re- 
frained from speaking, except to make a kind 
inquiry after his wife and children ; but after 
his back was turned, she said, “Johnson has 
put up with a great deal more than most men 
would have borne, I believe.” 


FEANK JOHNSON’S EEASON. 47 

Oh, I dare say. That Enfield is an aggra- 
vating fellow. If it were not for his wife, I 
would dismiss him at once. He isn’t fit to 
stand beside poor Erank.” 

“It is just the thought of poor Mary En- 
field that has so long stayed you from saying 
the word that would dismiss her husband, I 
know, John. And, after all, I don’t think she 
is much the better for any work he does. 
Harry earns money by hard labour, to squan- 
der it foolishly. Very little of it finds its 
way into Mary’s pocket; and the woman is 
always slaving to keep a home over her chil- 
dren’s heads. I sometimes think she would 
be better off without him altogether.” 

“Ay, Harry is a sample of the class of 
men who ^earn their money like horses and 
spend it like asses,’” replied John Aldridge. 
“However,” he added, in quite a determined 
tone, “ I am resolved that he shall keep within 
bounds while he is at work. I don’t value 
him so much as to drive away a good servant 
like Frank Johnson for his sake.” 


48 


IT isn't eight; oe, 


Mr. Aldridge spoke valiantly, and his good 
wife heartily encouraged him to act as well as 
talk. But it so happened that he did not see 
Enfield that evening. On the following day 
he had to go from Millfield on business, and, 
before the next one arrived, the old easy-going 
disposition began to assert itself, and he was 
ready to be angry with Frank for having 
made an appeal to him. Yet he did talk to 
Harry. He called him aside, and remon- 
strated with him, after a fashion; but this 
assertion of authority with regard to the 
morals of his workman placed him in such a 
novel position that he certainly did not fill it 
with dignity. Nay, he shrank before the eyes 
of the man whose words professed respect and 
submission to his employer while his whole 
manner belied them. So Mr. Aldridge, with 
right on his side, was a coward in the presence 
of the unabashed individual who listened, cap 
in hand, to what was intended to be a severe 
^ rebuke, and who left him the minute after- 
wards with the determination to make not 


FRANH Johnson’s reason. 49 

only the workshop, but Millfield itself, too hot 
to hold Frank Johnson. 

“The tell-tale!” he muttered, as he walked 
moodily away. “So he has been sneaking 
to Mr. Aldridge, like a petted child to his 
mother, instead of settling his own quarrels 
like a man. But I’ll be even with him yet, 
— mind if I don’t.” 

For the first day or two after Mr. Aldridge’s 
rebuke was administered, Harry Enfield’s be- 
haviour was truly exemplary. Hot a taunting 
word escaped his lips, and Frank began to 
rejoice in the increased peace and comfort 
of the workshop. In the lightness of his 
heart, he endeavoured to show marks of good 
will and civility to Enfield, in order to prove 
that he had not been actuated by any malice 
in taking means to obtain the privilege of 
Working unmolested. But it formed no part 
of Harry’s intention to let the matter rest 
here. In place of receiving Frank’s advances 
in a good-natured spirit, he deliberately turned 
towards him and said, “ I want nothing either 

D 5 


50 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


to say or to do with a mean, pitiful tell-tale, 
who could go sneaking to the master and 
whining out his complaints behind one’s back, 
instead of speaking out like a man.” 

“Hold thy foolish tongue, lad,” interposed 
Dick Halliday. “I wonder which of you 
looks most like a man at this minute? He 
has little of the man in him who defiles what 
was made in God’s image into the likeness of 
a senseless brute, as you do often enough. 
You may try to taunt Frank, and think it 
mighty brave to aggravate him into quarrel- 
ling with you; but. I’ll tell you what, it needs 
a deal more courage to conquer one’s self than 
to stand up before a fellow like you and fight 
it out.” 

“It’s lucky for Frank that, not being able 
to defend himself, he has such a champion as 
you, Dick,” retorted Enfield. 

“Ay, and you’ll not find that I have the 
moral courage he has; but I’ve something else, 
and I’ll stand no nonsense.” 

“I’ve no quarrel with you, Dick,” replied 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 51 

Enfield, in a tone which raised a laugh in the 
workshop; for Holliday was one whom they 
all knew it was not safe to provoke. 

^‘Then let others alone too. I tell you 
plainly, I stand by Frank; and, if it comes 
to the push, Mr. Aldridge will do the same : 
so it will be better for you to sign articles 
and proclaim peace,” said Dick, in a jocular 
manner. 

From Dick’s remarks, and the manner of 
the other workmen, Enfield judged that he 
had gone too far, and that the feeling was 
against him ; and, as he had no wish to leave 
his present easy-tempered employer, he thought 
fit to cease all annoyance during working- 
hours. But this did not procure peace for 
Frank elsewhere; and the next time that En- 
field left ofi* work to engage in a drinking- 
bout he had the full benefit of his smothered 
wrath. Though his daily comrades did not 
take his part, there were his companions at 
the Wheatsheaf, to whom he could revile 
Frank to his heart’s content; and through 


62 


IT isn’t right; or, 


them he contrived many ways of taunting 
his workfellow. 

Frank was going home one evening, and 
on his road thither he encountered a group 
whom he would fain have avoided. In fact, 
he was half inclined to turn back and take 
another road, that he might not pass the 
idlers assembled at the corner near the Wheat- 
sheaf; but, fearing that this movement might 
provoke what he wished to prevent, he quietly 
kept on his way. The moment he came 
within hearing, Harry Enfield, who, with 
flushed face and staggering gait, had just 
reeled out of the tap-room, began to make 
allusions to cowards” and ^Hell-tales,” and 
to repeat sneers, which Frank well knew were 
intended for him. The speaker was applauded 
by the surrounding group, some of whom had 
been sharing in Harry’s revels at his expense, 
— for he was in possession of a whole week’s 
wages when he entered the public-house; and 
their encouragement impelled Harry to re- 
double his efforts at annoyance. ^‘Yes,” said 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 53 

Harry, ^Hhis is Liberty Hall, friends. It 
will be of no use for a sneaking tell-tale to 
lodge complaints against us to our friend the 
landlord.” 

A loud laugh followed this speech, and it 
seemed still to ring in Frank Johnson’s ears 
as he lifted the latch of his own door. He 
did not intend to tell his wife of what had 
passed; but, looking in his face, she read that 
something was the matter; though his kind 
question, ^^Do you feel better to-night, wife?” 
proved that, whatever might have vexed him 
• out-of-doors, he brought nothing of it in with 
him to mar the hallowed peace of home. 

“ Yes, thank you, Frank ; I am better. But 
what has happened?” 

Frank laughed. ^'What a sharp-sighted 
wife I have!” 

^‘No: you are a bad hand at playing hypo- 
crite, Frank. I can always tell as well when 
any thing has happened to make you uncom- 
fortable, as though I had stood by at the time.” 

''I don’t like to bring my bits of troubles 

5 * 


54 


IT isn’t right; or, 


and vexations to you. You have enough to 
bear in the way of pain, and yet you hardly 
ever complain ; and when you have your house- 
hold troubles, you don’t keep a list of them 
to entertain me with when I come in. It 
isn’t right that you should bear your own 
burden and mine too.” 

^‘No; but it is right that we should share 
each other’s burdens, Frank. If other people 
vexed you, and you brought only the ill-tem- 
pers home to us which you durstn’t vent upon 
them, it would be a different matter. Poor 
Mary Enfield has to bear the brunt of what- 
ever goes amiss; but my husband tries to give 
me the largest share of all that is pleasant, 
and keeps the troubles to himself.” 

After this, could Frank keep silence? No: 
he told all to his good wife, and she wisely 
strove to allay the feeling of vexation caused 
by unprovoked insult, and encouraged her 
husband in his resolution to do what was 
right, at any cost to himself, and leave the 
rest to Him who orders all things well. 


frank; Johnson’s reason. 55 

No wonder that the cloud soon disappeared 
from Frank’s face, and that he forgot, in the 
gentle attentions of his faithful wife, and in 
listening to the innocent prattle of his chil- 
dren, the irritation of the previous hour. 
While he sat in his bright and cheerful though 
humble home, Harry Enfield repaired to his 
favourite corner in the tap-room, where, amid 
the renewed applause of his companions, he 
rehearsed how he had paid off that Frank 
Johnson for telling tales to their master. 

Before we put out our light for the night, 
we will take a peep into the place which En- 
field called home. 


56 


IT isn’t right; or, 


CHAPTER III. 

A TERRIBLE EVENING IN ENFIELD’s COTTAGE 
— THE UNKNOWN DELIVERER. 

» HE year was drawing to its close, 
and, though not frosty, the weather 
was raw and cold; but Harry En- 
field’s hearth-stone reflected no cheer- 
ful blaze. Instead of glowing with 
genial heat, it was only just visible by the 
gleam of the few dull, red cinders which 
barely covered the bottom of the grate. It 
was not late,' but Mary Enfield, after giving 
her children their meagre supper, put them 
to bed ; and they — poor little ones ! — were glad 
to go, rather than run the risk of being in 
the way when their father should come in. 

It is horrible to have to picture children 
shrinking in dread from the parent whose 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 57 

relationship has been chosen as a type of that 
which exists between our heavenly Father 
and us, the creatures of his hand, the chil- 
dren of his bounty. But, unhappily, it is no 
uncommon picture. 

Mary Enfield’s heart was heavy, as she 
busied herself in caring for the wants of her 
young family, but her eyes were dry. The 
luxury of tears belongs not to those whose 
sorrows and trials are of every-day occurrence. 
The fountain of her tears had run dry long 
ago. 

For a time Mary Enfield occupied herself 
in repairing her children’s clothes, — in putting 
on a string here and a button there, or in 
darning the rent in pinafore or frock. These 
matters ended, she went to the door and 
listened for the footsteps which she wished, 
yet feared, to hear. There was not a sound 
to be heard, except the moaning of the wind 
in the trees ; and, as Mary stood shivering in 
the night-air, she felt all the loneliness and 
bitterne^ of her position. She could catch a 


58 


IT isn't right; or^ 


glimpse of the light in Frank Johnson’s cot- 
tage-window, and, in fancy, she pictured the 
scene within, — the cheerful, sober husband, 
the wife forgetting her bodily pain in her 
wedded happiness, the little children sleeping 
peacefully, well warmed, well fed, and perhaps 
smiling as, in dreams, there came back to them 
the memory of the good-night kiss so lately 
given. 

Mary could hardly bear to look into her 
own dwelling after gazing on this picture, 
which she knew to be no ideal one; though 
now she was not permitted by her wayward 
husband to hold any friendly communication 
with Elizabeth Johnson, her own old school- 
fellow and early companion. But her thoughts 
wandered to another scene, which she knew 
to be equally real with the one she had already 
glanced at. This time she pictured the well- 
lighted tap-room at the Wheatsheaf, in which 
her husband would be sitting, spending the 
money that ought to pass into her .hands to 
find fuel, food and' clothes. Oh, it was hard. 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 59 

very hard, to picture these senseless revels, 
and to think of the pinching that must follow ! 

Should I bring him home?” thought Mary. 
^Mf I could save something, it would be worth 
trying for, at any rate.” 

She hesitated still; for the bitter memory 
of coarse words, and even blows, that she had 
brought upon herself by a similar eiffort, made 
her pause. But the cold, wintry wind was 
the means of nerving her to make the at- 
tempt; for, as it blew her thin garments aside, 
she was reminded of what her children would 
have to suffer unless she could procure warmer 
clothing for them than any they possessed. 

Mary Enfield passed into the cottage again, 
looked at the children to see that they were 
asleep, satisfied herself that no danger was to 
be apprehended from the few smouldering 
cinders in the grate, and then, after having 
extinguished her candle, she sallied forth. 
She left the door unlocked, in case her hus- 
band should come; for there were two ways 
which led to the Wheatsheaf, and she might 


60 


IT isn’t eight; or, 


miss him. In any case, there was little under 
the cottage roof to tempt any person to enter. 
When she reached the end of the street, she 
hesitated which way to take, and then turned 
in the direction by which Harry usually came. 
But it chanced that she missed him. Harry 
had thought fit to escort one of his companions 
home; for it often happens that men in his 
condition, while thoroughly sensible of the 
inability of another to take care of himself, 
have a ludicrous — or what would be ludicrous 
if it were not saddening and disgusting — 
notion of their own superior wisdom and dis- 
cretion. Thus, while Mary was hastening in 
one direction, her husband was reeling home- 
ward by the other road, and reached the cot- 
tage about five minutes after she quitted it. 

The first outbreak of the drunkard was 
one of anger; and bitter and blasphemous 
words passed his lips because the house was 
cold-looking and cheerless and no bright blaze 
shone on the hearth. He did not stay to 
consider by whose fault not only the cheerful 


FRANK Johnson's reason. 61 

blaze was wanting in the grate, but the light 
of household love itself was almost quenched. 
He only, blamed his absent wife for what she 
was powerless to prevent or amend. 

With some difficulty Harry managed to 
steady himself so far as to rake together the 
glimmering embers and obtain a light. But 
he did not notice that, instead of throwing 
the lighted paper into the grate, as he in- 
tended, he had cast it in quite a different 
direction, and that it had set fire to the heap 
of little garments which his wife finished 
mending before she left the house. One idea, 
however, he managed to entertain. It was 
his favourite notion of ‘‘paying off" those 
who offended him ; and he succeeded in fasten- 
ing the door, in order to keep his wife out in 
the cold until he should think fit to admit 
her. “She went out without my leave," he 
said to himself, “but she won't get in with- 
out it." 

Then he reeled into the next room, — for the 

cottage consisted of two rooms on the same 
6 


62 


IT isn’t right; or, 


floor, and one little chamber above, — and threw 
himself on the bed, to sleep off the effects of 
his evening at the Wheatsheaf. But the man 
never noticed that the fire he had kindled 
was smouldering among the clothes upon the 
chair. 

The lane in which the cottage stood was 
not much frequented, and Harry Enfield’s 
dwelling was the only one in it. Mary En- 
field’s first wedded home was of a different 
description from the tumble-down place in 
which she had lately lived. It had, however, 
the merit of being let at a very low rent, 
and, being a solitary cottage, she was enabled 
to hide in it the trials and poverty which she 
could ill bear for her neighbours — those who 
had known her in brighter days — to guess at, 
much less see. 

In the mean while, Mary had hurried to- 
wards the Wheatsheaf; but when she reached 
its threshold she lingered, half afraid to cross 
it. The wintry wind blew keenly, and she 
drew her old shawl more closely round her 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 63 

as she stood on tiptoe and tried to peep in at 
the tap-room window. But the blind fitted 
closely, and, though she could hear the voices 
of the revellers within, she could not distin- 
guish any person, or, amid the confusion of 
tongues, detect that of her husband. 

As Mary stood, undecided what to do, a 
man came out of the house; and, finding that 
he was sober, she ventured to ask if her hus- 
band was in the tap-room. 

‘'Oh, Mrs. Enfield, is that you? Harry is 
not there: he started for home some time 
since, I know, for I met him on my way here.'' 

“It’s very strange,” replied Mary, not 
knowing whether to trust to the truth of the 
speaker ; for she had been deceived more than 
once at that door. “I came straight from 
home by the road he mostly takes, and I have 
seen nothing of him.” 

“Which way is that?” 

Mary told him. “Oh, then, that accounts 
for it,” said the man. “Harry thought he 
was man enough to see John Dyson home, so 


64 IT isn’t right; or, 

he would go the other road to bear him com- 
pany.” 

John was taking trouble home to his poor 
wife, then,” returned Mary, with a sigh, which 
showed her sympathy for a wife and mother 
whose lot resembled her own. And Harry, 
— how was he?” 

‘‘ I’m sorry to say there was six of one and 
half a dozen of the other. Good-night, Mrs. 
Enfield.” 

Mary thanked the man for his information, 
and hastened homeward. She was well aware 
that if Harry reached the cottage before her 
she should have to endure a storm of hard 
words, perhaps blows also, as a punishment 
for her absence. As she turned into the lane, 
she observed with surprise a bright light 
shining from the cottage-window, and her 
heart began to beat with terror, which was 
not decreased when she reached her poor 
home. She tried the door. It was fast. She 
looked in at the window, but could distinguish 
nothing but clouds of smoke pierced by dart- 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 65 

ing flames. At once the truth flashed upon 
her. The half-stupefied man must have come 
home, and, in obtaining a light, doubtless, had 
set the place on fire ! 

A terrible cry burst from the almost frantic 
woman, as she thought of her little ones whom 
she had left sleeping peacefully in the upper 
chamber. With all her strength she shook 
the door, shrieking the while for help which 
she would fain have gone to seek; but she 
was in a manner held to the spot, fascinated 
by terror and the thought of her children’s 
danger. And of his too! Yes; though the 
man whose name she bore had caused her 
years of misery, had made her tremble at the 
sound of his voice, and even left the marks 
of his cowardly blows upon her person, she 
would, in that moment of peril, have risked 
her life to save his. She could forget, or at 
least forgive, his cruelty; but she could not 
forget that he was the father of her children, 
— the man to whom, in happier times, she 

plighted her troth before God’s altar. 

E 6« 


66 IT isn't right; or, 

Her efforts to unfasten the door were use- 
less, and her cries, shrill enough in them- 
selves, were almost drowned in the howling 
of the wind. But, happily, aid was at hand. 
Others had noticed the unusual light in Harry 
Enfield’s cottage, and were hastening to the 
spot. 

Among those thus attracted to the burning 
cottage were Frank Johnson and Mr. Philips. 
Frank had observed the blaze from his own 
window, and Mr. Philips, while taking a stroll 
— as he often did — through the highways and 
byways of Millfield. Others came in various 
directions; the door was burst open, and first 
of all the intoxicated man was roused from 
his slumber, and dragged literally through 
the fire into the open air. 

But with the preservers entered also the 
sharp night wind; and those who had saved 
Harry Enfield hesitated about entering a 
second time, when they saw the violence of 
the fire increased to such a fearful extent. 

Poor Mary Enfield’s cries were pitiful to 


FEANK Johnson’s eeasqn. . 67 

hear, as she wrung her hands and called the 
names of her children. In fact, the thinly- 
clad woman would have rushed upon certain 
death, had not friendly hands mercifully re- 
strained her. Even the drunken father was 
in some degree sobered by the sight of the 
burning cottage and the thought of his chil- 
dren. One among these — his only boy — was 
the single object upon whom he lavished ca- 
resses; and his love for the lad seemed the 
sole spark of kind and natural feeling which 
animated him. 

But Harry Enfield, just awakened from his 
heavy sleep, was in no condition to save the 
lives of his children, even had it been possible 
for him to force his way through the flames. 

“Is this the only door?” cried Mr. Philips, 
who was one of the most active in his efforts 
to extinguish the flames. 

“Yes, sir,” was the cry of many voices. 
“And you see the kitchen is all on fire, and 
the next room too.” 

“Where are the children?” 


68 • IT isn't eight; or, 

In a little place above ; but it has no win- 
dow, except a glass tile in the roof. It will 
be well if the smoke doesn’t suffocate them be- 
fore they can be reached.” 

These words fell like a death-knell on the 
poor mother’s ear, and, utterly overcome, she 
fainted. At the moment that she was carried 
from the spot by sympathizing neighbours, a 
figure was seen to burst in the lattice-win- 
dow of the ground-floor bedroom, and then 
to disappear amid the clouds of smoke that 
filled it. It was evident that some person — 
no one seemed to know who — ^had resolved to 
make a daring effort for the rescue of the 
children. 

A daring effort it was. The smoke was 
stifling, and it was at no time an easy matter 
to bear a child down the crazy steps which 
led to the little chamber. But the man, who 
had muffled himself as much as possible to 
keep off the darting flames, soon reappeared 
with one child, which was received through 
the broken window by Mr. Philips. 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 69 

^'You must not try this way again,” said 
that gentleman. 

There is no other,” was the rapid reply; 
and again the man disappeared. 

However, a ladder was brought by this 
time and reared against the wall, and vigorous 
hands were soon at work tearing off the tiles 
and making an opening in the roof. They 
were but just in time. It would have been 
impossible for the man to retrace his steps 
through the burning room below; for the 
flames stopped the way. But he managed 
to pass the half-stifled children through the 
opening in the roof, and then he followed 
himself. A hundred hands were outstretched 
to receive the children, and they were speedily 
conveyed to the house which already sheltered 
their mother. 

To describe poor Mary Enfield’s joy and 
thankfulness as, on recovering from her death- 
like faint, she saw and clasped her children in 
her arms, would be impossible. The fact that 
her few worldly possessions were all consumed 


70 


IT isn’t right; or, 


seemed a trifling misfortune, and the regret ex- 
pressed by the neighbours on this account fell 
on deaf ears. Mary could only feel that but 
a little while before she had believed her chil- 
dren lost to her, and now, rich in a mother’s 
choicest treasures, she saw them by her side 
and clasped them, living and safe, to her 
breast. 

Her next wish was to know who had 
saved her little ones. But to this question no 
person could give an answer. All had seen 
the muffled figure of the brave man who 
risked his own life to rescue theirs; but he 
had disappeared from the throng unnoticed, 
and they who looked on had vainly sought 
him. 

There was, however, one who had a sus- 
picion of the truth ; and this was Mr. Philips. 
With his usual liberality, he sought Mary 
Enfield, and placed in her hand a sum suffi- 
cient to obtain present necessaries, at the 
same time exacting a promise that no por- 
tion of it should be intrusted to her husband ; 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 71 

and, having further stated that he would see 
her again on the morrow, he took his leave. 

Mary and her children were distributed 
among the neighbours, and a shelter was also 
found for the unworthy husband and father, 
whose besetting sin had caused this destruc- 
tion and misery and doomed the poor home 
to utter ruin. 

When Mr. Philips left the scene of the fire, 
he went straight to Frank Johnson’s cottage 
and tapped for admittance. Mrs. Johnson 
opened the door, and, in answer to his inquiry 
for her husband, said that Frank was in, but 
was j ust going to bed. 

^^You don’t want to let me come within 
your doors to-night, Mrs. Johnson,” said he, in 
a good-natured voice; ^^and I think I know 
wh5^ But tell your good man that \ can 
keep a secret.” 

Mr. Philips had his own way, as usual. In 
another minute he was face to face with Frank 
Johnson; and sundry matters, such as drenched 
and singed mufilers and clothing, told him that 


72 


IT ISNT right; OR; 


he was not mistaken when he gave Frank the 
credit of being the saviour of Harry Enfield’s 
children. 

The deed was one after Mr. Philips’s own 
heart; and, seizing the workman’s toil-hardened 
palm, he shook it heartily. ‘‘ You are a brave 
man, Frank Johnson,” said he. “I have 
heard a good deal about you, and I knew long 
ago that you possessed the moral courage 
which would enable you to endure to be called 
a coward rather than prove yourself a black- 
guard. But only within the last hour have I 
found out that you are influenced by the still 
higher and holier feeling which strengthens 
you to ‘do good to them that hate you.’” 

Frank’s eyes glistened as he heard these 
words. He knew that Mr. Philips was some- 
what chary of bestowing praise; but, then, he 
was a man whose uprightness and sincerity 
made the praise doubly valuable when he 
was moved to utter it. So Frank thanked 
him for the expression of his good opinion, 
and added, — 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 73 

“It is pleasant to be thought well of, sir, 
and I don’t pretend to be indifferent about 
anybody’s opinion of me. But, still, there are 
some people’s good word that I would rather 
have than others’; and yours is one that I do 
value very much.” 

Mr. Philips smiled. He was pleased at the 
implied compliment, — though Frank had no 
idea of paying any. He had simply given 
utterance to his thoughts. 

“ I didn’t mean for anybody but my wife, 
here, to know my part in to-night’s work,” 
added Frank: “so, if you please, sir, I shall 
trust to you to say nothing.” 

“That shall be as you please, Johnson; 
though why you should wish to make a secret 
of it, I cannot think. Surely you are not 
ashamed of having saved the children of the 
man who has been so long a source of annoy- 
ance to you?” 

“Oh, no, sir; oh, dear, no! But, for one 
thing, I think it isn’t right to make a fuss 

about it, if I have been able to do a service 
7 


74 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


in time of need; and, for another, I don’t 
wish Harry Enfield to feel tied to be civil to 
me just on account of this night’s work.” 

“How, that is what I call a bit of pride, 
Johnson. You are too proud to claim from 
the man who has injured you the gratitude 
to which you are entitled.” 

“I tell him so, 4sir,” said Mrs. Johnson. 
“But he says — and I believe him — that he 
would have done exactly the same for any 
person; and therefore he wants no reward 
but what his own conscience gives him. Still, 
I know that if I were in Enfield’s place I 
should feel grieved and disappointed if I were 
not allowed the chance of relieving a full 
heart by at least saying my thanks, if I 
could do nothing else.” 

“He won’t be convinced: I can see it in 
his face. Neither your reasons nor mine will 
weigh with him, Mrs. Johnson. I will keep 
your secret, Frank, and no one shall know, 
unless you choose to tell, that you were the 
hero of to-night. I shall leave you jiow; but 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. • 75 

I mean to have a long talk with you some 
day soon.” 

Mr. Philips left the house, and Frank 
Johnson went to his well-earned rest.. On 
the following day Harry Enfield and his 
family became the tenants of another cottage ; 
and, out of pity for his wife, a subscription 
was entered into to furnish the new abode 
with necessaries. In some degree awed by the 
peril he and his children had passed through, 
and conscience-stricken at the thought that 
he had nearly been their murderer, Harry 
went to his work with a determination to 
resist the fascinations of the Wheatsheaf and 
to care more for his own true interests. He 
even so far opened his heart to Mary as to 
tell her that he regretted the past, and said, 
with a shudder, that if he had caused the 
death of his children he should have been 
the most miserable wretch on the face of the 
earth. 

It was long since Mary had heard a kind 
word from her husband’s lips; and she re- 


76 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


joiced, but with trembling, as the glad sound 
reached her ears. ‘‘If he can but keep to 
his resolution!” she thought: “0 God, give 
him strength to do it.” Like a wise woman 
and true wife, she resolved to make no allu- 
sion to the past, and to utter no word of re- 
proach. “I shall be too thankful to forget 
it,” said she to herself; “and I pray that 
Harry may forget it too, and all the evil 
which belonged to it.” 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 


77 


CHAPTER IV. 



AN UNEXPECTED PEOPOSAL, AND ITS CON- 
SEQUENCES. 

'MONG Mr. Philips’s especial hob- 
bies was a perfect passion for giv- 
ing people a lift,” as he expressed 
it. Having himself risen from a 
comparatively humble position to 
the possession of wealth, his warmest sympa- 
thies always went with the self-made men 
and those who were struggling to rise in the 
social scale. And wherever he saw one of 
these strugglers in need of a helping hand, 
he was just the one to hold it out. “I will 
do my very best to aid those who are willing 
to help themselves,” he would say; ^‘but I 
will have nothing to do with him who waits 

for another to do his own share of the work.” 

7 * 


78 


IT isn't right; or, 


At this particular time Mr. Philips had 
taken it into his head to help Frank Johnson. 
He considered that if any man had the quali- 
ties which rendered him a suitable person to 
receive a lift, it was Frank Johnson; and, in 
accordance with this notion, Frank had a 
summons to Sunny Lee. 

^^Can you spare time to have a talk with 
me, Johnson?” asked Mr. Philips, when Frank 
came into his office. 

‘^Yes, sir; certainly I can.” 

^‘Sit down, then. Not just by the door, 
man. Draw your chair near the table and 
the fire. I shall want to see your face while 
I am talking to you.” 

Frank lifted his eyes towards the eccentric 
speaker, and showed by his straightforward 
look and the broad smile on his countenance 
that he was not afraid of its expression being 
scrutinized. 

^‘That’s right. And, now, how do you get 
on at Mr. Aldridge's?” 

Pretty well, sir, thank you. Work is 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 79 

regular and wages are good. I have no fault 
to find with his conduct towards me.” 

^‘And Enfield: — how does he behave?” 

“ He has been quite steady ever since the 
fire, sir ; and, though he is very close-tempered 
with me, he doesn’t often taunt me now ; and, 
if he did, I could bear it better.” 

^^Ay, the voice within tells you a pleasant 
tale, which makes taunting words fall harm- 
less. But I must talk about something else. 
Were you ever a master-workman, Johnson?” 

‘‘ Never, sir. My father was ; and when my 
brother and I were youths working together, 
we used to think that we should try to save 
money and start together in the old place. 
However, we both married early, and had fami- 
lies to support: so the plan fell through.” 

^‘And your brother, — what became of him? 
I am not asking from impertinent curiosity, 
I assure you.” 

never supposed you were, sir; and I am 
quite willing to tell you any thing about me 
or mine. My brother is dead. He left a 


80 


IT isn’t eight; or, 


widow and three children; but they make a 
living now. She keeps a little shop, works 
hard, and trains the youngsters to do the 
same.” Frank did not tell how much of his 
hard earnings had gone to aid in the furnish- 
ing of the little shop. 

^'Have you given up the idea of going into 
business, then, Johnson?” 

‘^ Pretty nigh, sir. My father used to say, 
sometimes, that each member of a family 
must not expect to begin where their parent 
left off. He was a working-man himself be- 
fore he was a master.” 

But you would like to have a little busi- 
ness of your own ?” 

“I won’t deny that, sir; but it will not do 
for me to sit down and think what I should 
like. Instead of that, I work, and make the 
best of what we have to do with. It is some- 
thing to feel that we have thrown away no 
opportunities and wasted no part of our little 
means.” 

'"It is a great deal, Johnson. But, suppos- 


FRANK Johnson’s REASON. 81 

ing now that you had a friend who was willing 
to advance money, and thus enable you to 
make a start for yourself: do you think you 
could make business pay? I don’t mind tell- 
ing you that I was not always a rich man; 
in fact, I was a poor one when I was young. 
Well, in those days I had a kind helping 
hand stretched out to me. I never could 
repay him who extended it; for, however we 
may get rid of mere money obligations, we 
cannot always give back what is better, — the 
goodness which prompted the offer of help. 
So now, if I look around me and see that I 
can aid one who is poor, as I was aided in 
those old times, I feel it a great pleasure to 
do it. It is meting to a struggling man the 
same measure I received as a struggling man, 
Frank Johnson, there seems to be room for 
you a step higher; and if my hand can pull 
you up, you may count upon it. I will lend 
you some money at a low rate of interest, and 
you shall return it to me in whatever sums 

you please.” 

F 


82 IT isn’t right; or, 

Frank could scarcely believe his ears when 
he heard these words. He was, indeed, quite 
overpowered by this unexpected proposal. 
He tried to thank Mr. Philips in suitable 
terms, and signally failed, — as most people do 
when their hearts are full. But there is a 
language apart from that of words, and Mr. 
Philips could read Frank’s gratitude in his 
honest face. 

^^You shall not give me an answer to my 
proposal to-night, Johnson. Take it home 
with you. Consider what sum would be need- 
ful, and make your calculations. Then let 
me know the result. You will not find me 
going back from my promise.” 

Frank hardly knew how he got home, laden 
with such strange tidings; and, until he was 
fairly talking it over with his wife and hear- 
ing her exclamations of surprise, he could 
scarcely imagine this new prospect to be real. 

Whether he accepted Mr. Philips’s offer will 
be best understood by a peep into Mr. Al- 
dridge’s parlour, a few days after it was made. 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 83 

^'What do you think is Mr. Philips’s last 
crotchet?” said the builder to his wife. 

Mrs. Aldridge looked inquiringly into her 
husband’s face, and had no trouble in reading 
there this fact, — that, whatever the crotchet 
might be, it was something excessively dis- 
tasteful to her lord and master. 

Her husband waited for no answer, but 
continued : — “ I am going to lose my best man 
through this new whim.” 

^^What! Frank Johnson?” 

^^The very same. Frank told me this 
morning that he was going to leave me in a 
few days, — in fact, on Saturday night week. I 
was both surprised and annoyed, and naturally 
wished to know the why and the wherefore.” 

And how is it, John ?” asked Mrs. Aldridge. 

He is going to set up in business for him- 
self.” 

“You surprise me. I never supposed that 
Frank had been able to save money for any 
such purpose.” 

“I said the very same thing to him at 


84 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


once; and he frankly told me that a gentle- 
man had offered to advance him the necessary 
capital at such a reasonable rate of interest 
as to give him a chance of making a very 
fair start. He did not name Mr. Philips, 
but I am quite sure he is the man. It will 
be well for Frank if he finds himself in a 
better position as a master, with borrowed 
capital, than as a workman, with good wages. 
I consider Mr. Philips has served me a shabby 
trick, in inducing one of my men to set up in 
opposition to me.” 

“But, John, I don’t suppose Mr. Philips 
thought about opposing you. You know he 
likes to help persons whom he thinks de- 
serving; and Frank is a worthy, steady fellow. 
Besides, when Mr. Philips assisted a person 
in another line of business, just in the same 
manner as you say he is going to help Frank, 
you were one of the first to praise his kind- 
ness and liberality.” 

“That was a very different matter,” re- 
torted Mr. Aldridge, hastily. 


FEANK Johnson's reason. 85 

Mrs. Aldridge would not attempt to argue 
on the subject; because she knew that the 
only real difference between the two cases 
was this. In the former her husband was 
merely a looker-on, who, having no interest 
in the matter, could praise the generosity of 
Mr. Philips; but in the present instance that 
gentlemans patronage of Frank Johnson 
would take away from John Aldridge a valued 
hand, who would also be elevated to the place 
of a business rival. However, as usual, Mrs. 
Aldridge strove to spread the oil of her good 
temper on the angry waves of her husband's 
troubled mind, and only replied, ^^You will 
not suffer by Frank's advancement, my dear. 
You have always more work offered than you 
can undertake; and I am sure you will wish 
poor Frank God-speed." 

^'Oh, I wish him well; of course I do," 
was the answer, but given in a tone which 
seemed to say that the very wish was a 
prophecy against its fulfilment. ^^But I 

should not like to start in business under 
8 


86 IT isn’t eight; oe, 

such circumstances. Frank will never make 
it answer.” 

'' Did you advise him not to try the experi- 
ment?” 

“ Not I. I once thought of saying a word 
or two, and of offering him higher wages to 
remain; but I considered that I should get 
no credit by it. Perhaps I should next have 
heard that I had a selfish motive in giving 
the advice. So I held my tongue, and told 
Frank that he was quite at liberty to leave 
me when he chose. I fancy he would like to 
take a share in my business; but that he 
shall never do while I live.” 

Mrs. Aldridge thought that Frank Johnson 
would make an admirable partner, and that, 
if he had a small share in her husband’s busi- 
ness, his steadiness, energy of character and 
perseverance would have infused new life into 
it. It was, however, another of her husband’s 
hobbies to reign alone in his own department : 
so it was of no use to name that thought of hers 
to a man who was predetermined not to listen. 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 87 

There were comments passed upon Frank’s 
new prospects in the workshop, as well as in 
the parlour. Most of the men were heartily 
rejoiced that the eccentric owner of Sunny 
Lee had chosen so worthy a fellow and given 
him a chance of bettering his position. Dick 
Halliday gave Frank’s hand a grip which 
made the sturdy workman’s arms tingle again, 
as he offered his good wishes. There was 
not a particle of envy in Dick’s composition; 
and he was well contented to see his friend 
lifted a step higher on the social ladder than 
himself. 

But it was with a very different feeling that 
Harry Enfield heard the news. ^^So that 
was what he was fawning and cringing on old 
Philips for,” said he, on the Saturday night 
which saw Frank take leave of Mr. Aldridge’s 
workshop. “ I thought he was not so smooth- 
tongued for nothing while he was at Sunny 
Lee. He finds that sort of conduct pay. 
Well, no matter, so long as we are rid of him. 
I always hated to work under the same roof 


88 


IT isn’t right; or, 


with that cowardly fellow, who was always 
pretending to be too good for our company.” 

^‘Not ours, Harry,” interposed Halliday, 
with a significant smile. 

^^For mine, then: we’ll put it in plain 
words.” 

^'And if he did pretend to be too good for 
your company, he was not so far wrong. You 
were certainly not a ^bird of his feather.’ 
Only he did not pretend at all. He really 
was all he professed to be. He 'didn’t say 
much, for he had as little of the bragging 
spirit in him as any man I know ; but he had 
his own notions of what was right, and he 
acted up to them. I know what book he took 
his notions from, Harry Enfield ; and, though 
I’m not half as good a fellow as Frank is, I 
do remember the time when my dear old 
mother taught me from that book. And 
I’m not ashamed to say that I owe all that 
is true and just and good in me to Bible 
teachings.” 

“So you are going to succeed Frank as 


FEANK JOHNSON'S EEASON. 


89 


preacher, are you? It isn't right to elect 
yourself to such an office.” 

There was a smile among the workmen at 
the absurd resemblance to Frank Johnson’s 
tone and manner, as Harry uttered the last 
words; and honest Dick Halliday reddened 
a little at the idea of his setting up for a 
preacher. 

I’ll preach none,” said he ; “ not I. Frank 
has my best wishes, and I hope good luck 
will attend him. Mr. Philips will not be mis- 
taken in him.” 

^‘No,” muttered Enfield. He’ll find out 
the truth of the old proverb, ^Set a beggar 
on horseback — ’ ” 

Mr. Aldridge’s entrance at this moment 
prevented the conclusion of this old proverb, 
— which, however, nobody but the speaker 
would have applied to Frank Johnson. 


8 * 


90 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


CHAPTER V. 



UPS AND DOWNS IN BUSINESS — A FOEMIDABLE 
EIVAL. 

'OR tlie next two or three weeks 
Frank Johnson’s mind and body 
were both fully employed in pre- 
paring for a start. It was to be a 
modest, unpretending sort of begin- 
ning, but the site of his business premises 
was well chosen. Mr. Philips had himself 
marked out the spot, as the most suitable one 
in Millfield, — always excepting John Al- 
dridge’s, — before he made the offer of money 
to Frank. The premises were taken, there- 
fore, and fitted up, and respectably furnished 
with a small but well-chosen stock of tho- 
roughly seasoned wood. 

Mr. Philips gave Frank his first job, as he 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 91 

had promised to do; and before that was fin- 
ished other employment was offered. 

The new master-builder was in high spirits, 
believe I shall be lucky/’ he said to his 
wife; ^^and I shall be both glad and thankful 
for your sake, more than for my own ; because 
if things do go well with me, you will not 
have to work so hard.” 

In the joy of .his heart, Frank saw his good 
wife no longer plodding at her household 
work unaided, but sitting, like Mrs. Aldridge, 
in her comfortable parlour, with some one to 
take the heavier labours off her hands. He 
told his wife what he hoped; and she, not 
willing to damp the eager anticipations of 
prosperity which were all for her sake, smi- 
lingly thanked him for his loving thoughts, 
but said, “That day-dream of yours must 
only come true when we are out of debt, 
working with our own money. At the best, 
we cannot expect to pay Mr. Philips in less 
than four years.” 

To his wife’s remark Frank Johnson will- 


92 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


ingly assented. ‘^Yes, we must go on in the 
old fashion,” he said. “ It wouldn’t be right 
to go to any extravagance; for it would be 
extravagance if we did it at the expense of 
my kind helper. But I shall try to keep the 
end in view, and make my picture something 
real.” 

Frank did thus work, and two years of the 
time passed prosperously. He found himself 
in a position to pay Mr. Philips one-half of 
the sum he had loaned him, and he went up 
to Sunny Lee for that purpose. 

^^This is gratifying, Johnson, — ^very gratify- 
ing,” said Mr. Philips. “But now, tell me, 
have you this money clear without lessening 
your capital?” 

“Yes, sir. I calculate that my present 
stock and certain debts that are due to me 
are equal to the whole sum you loaned me; 
that is, without what I now bring you.” 

“Very good. You have not disappointed 
me. But, now, wouldn’t it be better for you 
to keep this money, and to go on paying the 


FBANK JOHNSONS EEASON. 


93 


same interest for it, so as to extend your 
business a Jittle?" 

Frank thought a minute or two, and then 
answered, ^‘Upon the whole, sir, I think I 
would rather not. I have made a living, and 
something over; and I feel that I should like 
better to — to ” 

^^To have a small capital of your own, 
than a large one of somebody else’s? Speak 
out, man, if that’s what you mean: I shall 
not be offended.” 

You have just said my thoughts, sir. So, 
with many thanks, I will pay this money 
in.” 

The money was paid accordingly; and Mr. 
Philips, who was rather fond of boasting of 
the success of his favourites, in order to vin- 
dicate his own conduct with regard to them, 
did not fail to speak of Frank Johnson’s. 
It was well known all over Millfield that 
Frank owed his start to Mr. Philips; and 
Millfield folks were soon equally well informed 
as to the progress he had made in business 


94 IT isn't right; or, 

matters. In fact, when Mr. Philips paid the 
sum he had just received from Frank Johnson 
into the banker’s hands, he told that gently 
man how entirely his humble friend had 
answered his expectations. ^‘He is a man to 
be trusted,” said he, in an energetic tone. 
*^He has not only worked well, but he had 
the courage to refuse this money — the half 
of what I lent him — when I offered to let 
him keep it and extend his business there- 
with.” 

It was not often that Mr. Philips spoke 
without noticing of whom his audience con- 
sisted; but on this particular occasion he was 
a little excited, and not a little pleased at 
Frank’s conduct in the matter of the loan. 
As the banker was expressing his pleasure at 
hearing so good an account of one in whom 
Mr. Philips was interested, he gave a meaning 
glance towards the other end of the counter. 
There stood John Aldridge, looking any thing 
but gratified at what he had accidentally 
overheard. His back was towards Mr. Philips 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 95 

when that gentlemen entered, and thus it 
happened that he did not recognize Johnson’s 
former employer, or probably he would have 
paused before speaking so freely of Frank's 
affairs in his presence. Now, however, the 
thing was done, and Mr. Philips, reading the 
look of annoyance on the builder's face, strove 
to mollify him by at once including him in 
the conversation. Of late, be it known, there 
had been little communication between these 
two; for John Aldridge always tacitly re- 
sented Mr. Philips's interference with the 
affairs of his former workman, and looked 
upon himself as having sustained personal 
injury thereby. 

When, therefore, Mr. Philips bade the 
builder good-morning, and said, “ I was speak- 
ing of Frank Johnson, Aldridge: I have na 
doubt you will be glad to know of his well- 
doing," the answer he received was cold 
and dry. Frank Johnson is a lucky man, 
from what you say, Mr.. Philips." 

''Not lucky, Aldridge. I don’t consider 


96 


IT isn't eight; oe, 


that steadiness and good conduct and hard 
work can be called luck. I am no believer in 
that word. Frank Johnson is prospering; 
but his success has not come and found him 
idly waiting for fortune to drop down upon him 
from the clouds in a sort of golden shower. 
It came because he worked for it and won 
it." 

‘‘There are some that work hard, Mr. Phi- 
lips, and yet never win it," was the reply. 

“There are; there are, Mr. Aldridge. 
Some persons seem destined to work a lifetime 
through and yet make no progress. Trials 
come in abundance, but not prosperity. Ah, 
well, of such we can but say that they must 
look beyond this world for the reward which 
has not recompensed their labour here. But 
mind you, Mr. Aldridge, I believe there would 
be fewer of these aching hearts, these vain 
toils, — vain so far as earth is concerned, — if 
those whose lines have always fallen in plea- 
sant places were to stretch out a hand to help 
a poor brother to walk beside them and share 


FRANK JOHNSON’S REASON. 


97 


in the goodly heritage, instead of jealously 
striving to hinder rather than aid. I am no 
advocate for doing men’s work for them; but 
I would help the self-helper.” 

Mr. Philips spoke warmly and eagerly, as 
was his way, and simply expounded his own 
views, without in the least intending to attack 
those of John Aldridge himself. But the 
latter merely said he did not wish to enter 
into any argument on the subject, and went 
his way, having taken as an intentional in- 
sult the words which had been uttered in all 
single-heartedness by Mr. Philips. “Frank 
Johnson is growing rich,” he remarked to 
Mrs. Aldridge; and to her he also repeated 
the words of Mr. Philips, adding, “ I think he 
might have been contented without insulting 
me. Pm a quiet, easy-going man when people 
let me alone ; but I can understand these side- 
hits as well as anybody else. I know what 
Mr. Philips meant when he talked of the duty 
of those whose lines had fallen in pleasant 
places, and of their hindering others through 

G 9 


98 


IT isn’t right; or, 


jealousy from walking beside them. I suppose 
he considers that I ought, because I began 
with a decent capital, to set up my men in 
business and turn them all into masters. I 
never have stood in Frank Johnson’s way yet; 
but perhaps he’ll not make quite so much in 
the next two years.” 

Frank did not hear this implied threat. 
Mrs. Aldridge was the only person present 
when her husband gave vent to his gathering 
wrath, and she, hoping it would be forgotten, 
alluded to it no more. But, though Frank 
did not hear it, he felt its effects before many 
days had passed. 

It had always been remarked of Mr. Al- 
dridge that, though his work was admirable, 
he would have his price for it. He was too 
well off to care for taking contracts where 
there was a prospect of only a small margin 
of profit. On several occasions he and Frank 
Johnson had sent in estimates for work, and 
those of the latter had been accepted, on 
account of their being somewhat lower. But 


FRANK JOHNSON’S REASON. 


99 


after that conversation at the bank, Mr. Al- 
dridge’s conduct in this respect changed. 

We’ll see now,” said he to himself, 
whether Johnson’s purse will hold out 
against mine, or whether his friend will fill 
it up for him again. I’m not going to be 
called jealous for nothing.” 

After this thought passed through his 
mind, Mr. Aldridge took a paper out of his 
desk, and began making sundry alterations 
thereon. It was the estimate for the erection 
of a new school-house and school-master’s 
residence, which was to be sent in the next 
day. ^^I thought your calculations were 
made, John,” said his wife, as she saw him 
moodily but busily engaged in writing. 

'‘They were; but I had some talk with 
Bateman, the bricklayer, who is to join me 
in estimating, and he is willing to lower his 
terms a little. I mean to do the same. 
Frank Johnson is not going to have it all 
his own way.” 

Mrs. Aldridge was sorry to see that her 


100 IT isn’t eight; or, 

husband was animated by an uncharitable 
spirit; but in business matters she had no 
power to influence him. 

The estimates went in, and Mr. Aldridge’s 
offer was accepted, as it was found to be the 
lowest. Every person present was surprised, 
and could scarcely believe that there was no 
mistake. No one was more astonished than 
Frank Johnson, when he knew for what sum 
Mr. Aldridge had undertaken the work. He 
spoke of it to his wife when he got home, feel- 
ing somewhat disappointed, as he had calcu- 
lated on having the contract himself. “It 
cannot pay Mr. Aldridge,” said he. “He 
may be secured from loss, but he cannot get 
a sixpence by the job; for the money will 
barely pay for materials and labour.” 

But time after time the same thing oc- 
curred, and Frank Johnson found that it was 
useless to send in an estimate if Mr. Aldridare 

O 

did so. Then he saw himself compelled, by 
this unaccountable and unexpected rivalry, to 
work for less than he had hitherto done. 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 101 

The end of another year found him a trifle 
poorer than the beginning had done. After 
the interest of that part of Mr. Philips’s money 
which he still retained was paid, he had 
barely made a living. 

I feel rather discouraged,” said he to his 
faithful wife. ‘‘I have worked harder than 
ever this year, and yet I have not laid by one 
penny towards paying off the rest of the debt. 
I can’t help thinking that Mr. Aldridge has 
made up his mind to ruin me.” 

The large drops of perspiration stood on 
Frank’s face, as he pictured the downfall of 
his rising hopes, and his eventual failure in 
trade; and — poor fellow! — his old phrase 
dropped from him, It isnt right I 

It was not right in Mr. Aldridge. It was 
not what Frank would have done had their 
situations been reversed. 

“Never mind, Frank,” whispered his wife. 
“If your suspicions are correct, we must just 
work on, and trust still in Him who is above 
all other masters. And, from what I know 

9 * 


102 IT isn’t right; or, 

of Mr. Aldridge, he will be sorry some day 
for having tried to injure you.” 

“ It will be poor consolation for me, Eliza- 
beth, if I am a ruined man, with capital and 
credit lost, and all my plans for home comfort 
upset into the bargain.” 

This was unanswerable. And, indeed, the 
effects of Mr. Aldridge’s decided opposition 
were felt in many ways by Frank Johnson’s 
household. His two sons — fine, intelligent 
lads, on whom it had been his wish to bestow 
a good education — were taken from the school 
at which they had lately been placed, and sent 
to a less expensive one. “I wanted to give 
them good schooling,” sighed the father, ‘‘for 
that nobody could take from them; but they 
will have to do with less than I reckoned on.” 

It happened that Harry Enfield’s only son 
and namesake was a pupil at the inferior 
school; and he mentioned to his father the 
return of his former school-mates to their old 
desks again. 

“ So they’ve come back to your school, have 


FRANK JOHNSON S REASON. 103 

they ?” said his father, with a look of satisfac- 
tion. ^‘That tells a tale that's easy enough 
to read. Master Johnson isn’t going to get 
rich all at once. I thought old Aldridge 
meant to clip his wings for him ; and he’s done 
it already. And old Philips won’t go brag- 
ging that he has got all his cash back in a 
hurry, I’ve a notion, though he was so mighty 
fussy about the wonders Frank Johnson had 
done in two years.” Then, turning to his 
boy, he asked him if he should like to go to 
a better school. 

The lad, of course, answered that he should. 
^^But we can’t afford it, father, can we?” he 
eagerly inquired. Frank and Willy Johnson 
have come back to ours; and you say their 
father can’t pay for them at that other, and 
he's in business for himself.” 

^^And your father isn’t. Never mind, 
Harry, my boy. A working-man’s money is 
a.s good as Frank Johnson’s, any day; and 
we’ll see if we can’t afford it.” 

Mary Enfield could hardly believe her ears. 


104 IT isn’t eight; oe. 

Her husband had been much steadier* since 
the atFair of the fire, and, though he had at 
times indulged rather freely, he had never 
been helplessly intoxicated as on that occa- 
sion. Still, he had made no great efforts for 
the comfort of his home or advancement of 
his children, and, in her wildest dreams, she 
never thought he would care to educate them 
well. But, after this conversation with his 
boy, Harry removed his son to the higher 
school which the little Johnsons had left, and 
even sent his girls to another. Nay, more: 
he worked over-hours, and paid their school- 
bills when due. Yet it was not so much from 
a desire to benefit his own flesh and blood as 
to let that Frank Johnson see that he could 
afford to give his children good schooling with- 
out having old Philips to hack him. 

Mary was thankful (as what mother would 
not be?) that any thing had moved her hus- 
band to care for his children’s instruction. 
But she understood his motive, and feared 
that this new outbreak of paternal zeal would 


FRANK JOHNSON S REASON. 


105 


not be lasting, and that be would soon tire of 
devoting the earnings of bis extra working- 
bours to them. 

Perhaps ber forebodings would bave been 
realized, bad not Harry Enfield fallen into a 
wonderful stroke of luck, as he called it, 
which rendered him less dependent on bis 
daily labour. 


106 


IT isn’t eight ; or, 


< 


CHAPTER VI. 

HARRY Enfield’s stroke of luck — will 

IT PROVE TO BE ONE?. 

Saturday morning Mr. Aldridge , 
summoned from home on busi- 
5 which would detain him until 
middle of the following week. 
Dre he left, he arranged for his 
active little wife to take his place in the 
counting-house and pay the men when they 
came for their wages at night. This was a 
thing Mrs. Aldridge liked very much ; for she 
could thus see each of the workpeople, and 
make such inquiries after their wives and 
children as she knew would please the men 
themselves. Sometimes, too, she ventured on 
uttering a word of remonstrance to such as 
she knew to be neglectful of home; and her 



FRANK Johnson’s reason. 107 

pleadings on behalf of wives and little ones 
had been blessed before this time, because 
she threw such heartiness into her tones that 
they who heard felt her sincerity and felt 
also that she spoke for their good. Some- 
how, too, the men liked to see the bright- 
eyed, active little dame perched at the high 
desk and giving forth with pleasant smiles 
the fruits of their week’s toil. Yet, little 
as was Mrs. Aldridge, and insignificant as 
was her appearance, the big fellows, who 
would have looked boldly at her husband and 
listened carelessly when he reproved them, 
dropped their eyes and were uneasy under 
this woman's gentle pleadings in the cause of 
right. 

Fancy little Mrs. Aldridge at her post, 
paying out money, and taking account of 
what she paid in the most business-like fash- 
ion. And fancy, if you like, Harry Enfield’s 
entrance to receive his wages. He was the 
last comer; and though he had only left his 
work a couple of hours before, and was sober 


108 


IT ISNT right; OR; 


at that time, he now came into the counting- 
house with flushed face and staggering gait. 
Mrs. Aldridge observed this, and put on her 
most severe expression of face with which to 
greet the delinquent. She retained the money 
in her hand, and resolved to try the effect of 
a little womanly eloquence before she allowed 
Harry to walk off to the Wheatsheaf with 
his wages. 

I’m very sorry to see you in such a state, 
Enfield,” she bega,n. hoped you had 

turned over a new leaf and meant to ke6p 
steady. You should think about Mary and 
the youngsters, and not fill the landlord^ 
pocket with what ought to be taken home to 
your wdfe.” 

I work for my money, Mrs. Aldridge, and 
I suppose I have a right to do what I like 
with it,” returned Enfield, in a defiant man- 
ner, which he had never before assumed when 
speaking to her. 

Certainly, Enfield ; but you know my way, 
and I can’t help saying a word. I am a wife 


FRANK Johnson's reason. 


109 


and mother, and I feel for other wives and 
mothers.” 

“All right, ma’am,” said Harry, with a 
mock deferential bow; “but, as I don’t allow 
my own woman to lecture me, I don’t see 
why anybody else should do it : so please to 
give me my money and let me go. I want 
twelve dollars, — my week’s pay, — and a dollar 
for over-work. I’m in a hurry, too.” 

“If I thought you were in a hurry to go 
home to Mary, I should hasten you still more ; 
but I doubt you want to be in the tap-room 
corner. I really don’t think I shall give you 
the money to-night, — at any rate, not all of 
it; for I know it will go like chaff before the 
wind, and Monday morning will see you with- 
out a penny.” 

“You don’t mean to give me my wages, 
then, ma’am?” 

“Hot all. Here is half what is due you. 
Take it, and on Monday, when you come to 
work, you will feel glad that you have the 

rest to receive, instead of having squan- 
10 


110 IT isn’t eight; oe, 

dered it, you can’t tell how, at the public- 
house.” 

** So you mean that, ma’am, do you ?” 

*‘Yes: one word is ffs good as a thousand. 
I won’t give you another penny to-night,” 
said Mrs. Aldridge. 

The little woman was alone in the counting- 
house, and she knew well that, if that stalwart 
man chose, he could take by force what she 
refused to give. But, dauntless as usual, she 
suited her actions to her words, and, placing 
the remainder of the money in the desk, she 
shut the lid, and with a rapid movement 
locked it and put the key in her pocket. 

Harry Enfield saw and understood what 
her motions meant, and he laughed mockingly. 

Don’t be alarmed, ma’am,” said he: ^‘the 
money is quite safe where you’ve put it. I 
sha’n’t try to take it, though it is my own 
lawful earnings. I’ll send for the balance on 
Monday morning, for I don’t mean to come 
for it. I’ve done my last stroke of work 
here, — for the present, at any rate. You may 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. Ill 

tell Mr. Aldridge so, with my best compli- 
ments, and thanks for past favours. He’s not 
a bad sort of man; and I’ll say that either 
before his face or behind his back, and I 
ought to know. But I’ve had a stroke of 
luck, Mrs. Aldridge. Here, read that,” he 
added, placing an open letter on the desk, 
‘^and then see if you think I need care two- 
pence about to-night’s wages. No, — not if 
I never get ’em.” 

Surprised at the man’s manner, and per- 
haps moved by a little natural curiosity, Mrs. 
Aldridge read the letter, which was as fol- 
lows : — 

^‘Mr. Henry Enfield. 

^^Sir: — U nder the will of your wife’s late 
uncle, Mr. Samuel Hardy, she is entitled to 
a legacy of two thousand dollars, which will 
be paid to her, free of duty, according to the 
expressed wish of the testator, as soon as the 
usual arrangements can be made. A further 
sum of two thousand dollars is bequeathed to 


112 


IT isn’t right; or, 


your children; but only the interest will be 
available until the youngest is of age. 

Awaiting a communication from you, we 
remain, sir, your obedient servants, 
^‘Prosser & Kean.” 

After reading the above, Mrs. Aldridge felt 
that it would matter little whether Enfield 
took away only the half or the whole of his 
week’s wages. The man’s boastful, mocking 
manner towards herself was fully explained, 
as the prospect of possessing so much would 
make him feel rich. Mrs. Aldridge handed 
him back the letter, saying, sincerely 
hope, Enfield, that this legacy will prove a 
stroke of luck. It will, if well used, add 
greatly to your means 3,nd home comforts; 
but no luck will result from it unless you be 
steady and industrious still. Eemember, it 
does not make you independent of work. 
And let me beg of you, since this money 
comes to you through your wife, to let her 
feel the benefit of it. It will be a curse, in- 


'13|'^' • • '■‘^ * •“■ ‘ '■ •-4- : l-#’-'-*^' ■ ' ■ 7 - 1 
*i / - ' ' — --"v 

■ ' |p.,^vv:is^' i:il_ 




It Esn’t Bigfjt 



“ You won't shake hands, then ? ^ 


p n.^ 




FRANK Johnson’s reason. 113 

stead of a blessing, if it lead you again into 
folly, sin and dissipation.” 

Thank you, ma’am, for your advice; you 
mean well, I’m sure,” said the half-tipsy man, 
moved, in spite of himself, by the speaker’s 
earnest tone. '^And I should like for us to 
part friends, for all you won’t give me my 
due; though it makes no matter, for anybody 
will give me credit, with this security in my 
possession.” And he slapped the pocket which 
contained the letter, with an air of infinite 
satisfaction. You won’t shake hands, then ?” 
He had extended his hand to Mrs. Aldridge 
with tipsy familiarity as he made the allusion 
to parting friends;” but Mrs. Aldridge in- 
dignantly drew back. 

^‘If you had come here sober, and told me 
of your good fortune, I would have shaken 
hands with you right willingly, while I wished 
you well. I do wish you well as it is, with 
all my heart; but my hand must not be ex- 
tended to you, under present circumstances.’ 

There was something so truly dignified in 
H io« 


114 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


the little woman’s manner, that Harry En- 
field shrank back abashed, left the counting- 
house without any further remark, and stag- 
gered homewards. 

As he entered the cottage, his wife’s tear- 
ful face excited his wrath. ‘‘What is the 
stupid woman crying about ?” said he. “ Mary, 
I think there is something to laugh at, instead 
of whining about the place in that fashion. 
I shan’t cry, I reckon, unless another letter 
comes to tell me that this isn’t true.” And he 
waved the paper round his head in triumph. 

“Oh, Harry,” returned his weeping wife, 
“how can I help crying when I think of my 
poor uncle’s goodness? If I could but have 
seen him and heard him say that he forgave 
me for my disobedience, I should not feel this 
so much.” 

“ I’d a deal rather that a man showed his 
forgiving spirit by leaving me a bit of brass, 
than by telling me so and giving somebody 
else the money. Hold your silly tongue, and 
don’t put me out with your crying.” 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 115 

Mary dried her eyes, and strove to appear 
more composed; but her heart was heavy 
within her. The tidings of the legacy, which 
had raised her husband’s spirits to the highest 
pitch, had filled her heart with sadder and 
softer feelings. She thought of the time 
when she, an orphan child, dwelt under the 
roof of her good uncle, and of the tenderness 
with which he then supplied a father’s place 
to her. She remembered her happy girlish 
days before an acquaintance with Harry En- 
field cast the first shadow over them. She 
seemed to hear again the words of advice 
first, and then the urgent pleadings, by which 
her uncle strove to dissuade her from uniting 
her lot with a man destitute of religious 
principles, and of intemperate habits. Many 
and many a time after that marriage had 
separated her from her early home and best 
earthly friend, did Mary bitterly repent of 
her own obstinacy, and the separation which 
it had caused. 

And now, after the lapse of many years. 


116 IT isn’t eight; or, 

during whicli she and her uncle had never 
met, is it wonderful that tears came more 
readily than smiles when that lawyer’s letter 
brought tidings of this unexpected legacy? 
It was like a message of pardon from beyond 
the grave; and Mary’s tears would flow, and 
her voice tremble, when she spoke of it, and 
wished she might but have heard the words 
of forgiveness from her uncle’s lips and once 
more clasped his hand in hers before the 
pulse had ceased to beat. 

Fortunately, Harry wa,s in too high spirits 
to be much troubled by his wife’s tears. He 
said, with a coarse attempt at a jest, that she 
might do the crying for both of them, and, 
as he had no tears to spare, he could do a 
double share of laughing. He kissed his 
children, too, promised them impossible toys 
and future grandeurs, and, as an earnest, 
presented each with some of the money re- 
ceived from Mrs. Aldridge. The rest he 
threw carelessly to his wife, saying that, if he 
had no more money, he had money’s worth 


; FE^NK: Johnson's keason. 117 

in liis pocket; and then, resisting her endea- 
vours to induce him to remain in-doors, he 
betook himself to the Wheatsheaf, where he 
read the news of his good fortune to an ad- 
miring group of listeners in the tap-room. 

How grandly did he reign that night as 
king of the revels, by virtue of that bit of 
paper signed by Messrs. Prosser & Kean! 
With what tipsy condescension did he an- 
nounce his intention of standing treat"' ! 
With what a sense of superiority did he listen 
to the remarks of those who praised him as 
a good fellow, and one who, though he had 
got a fortune left him, wasn’t too proud to 
take a glass (a great many times replenished) 
with old mates, or too greedy to fill theirs! 
And as such remarks caused Harry to con- 
sider his generosity on this score a very 
praiseworthy act, — in fact, a sort of moral 
virtue, — he, to sustain his character for libe- 
rality, bade the speakers empty their glasses 
and have them refilled at his expense. 

One little incident occurred which rather 


118 


IT isn’t right; oR; 


marred the conviviality of the evening. A 
poor, miserable-looking, ill-clad woman, with 
four ragged and barefooted children, forced 
her way into the tap-room of the Wheatsheaf. 
This was Sarah Dyson, the wife of the man 
whom Harry Enfield accompanied home on 
the night of the fire. 

The landlord of the Wheatsheaf vainly 
strove to oppose the woman’s entrance. No- 
thing but actual violence could have pre- 
vented it; and that it would have been very 
unwise to employ. It would not do to create a 
scandal by rough behaviour to a woman who 
came in search of her husband. So Sally 
Dyson stood, surrounded by her shivering 
children, a pitiable group, in the well-warmed, 
well-lighted tap-room. The place was pretty 
nearly full; for the tidings of Harry Enfield’s 
liberal doings had sufficed to bring an extra 
number to the Saturday evening gathering. 

But the woman heeded not their presence, 
or, at least, was not abashed by it. She cast 
a glance of fierce contempt on the assembly, 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 119 

and then, in shrill tones, attacked her husband. 
^^Are you not ashamed of yourself, John 
Dyson,” said she, “to sit there drinking, and 
know that you have not left me a single shil- 
ling to buy food for to-morrow ? Aren’t you 
ashamed to sit near that bright fire, and know 
that our hearth at home is cold, — that I have 
no fuel, and that my children will have to go 
without food enough the week through, because 
you spend all in drink?” 

There were not many, even of that group, 
who were quite so bad as John Dyson; for his 
children were notoriously the most ragged and 
his home the most wretched in all Millfield; 
and the men who sat drinking there looked 
shocked as they heard his wife’s accusing 
voice, and saw her accusation confirmed in the 
miserable objects before them. 

“Whist, Sally! whist!” said John Dyson, 
fairly cowering before his angry wife. “I 
haven’t spent my wages. I have only paid 

up the week’s score, and the rest ” 

“ Is not much, I’ll be bound. But, little or 


120 


IT isn’t right; or. 


mucli, I have not seen the colour of your 
money this night; and I’ll speak my mind for 
once, in spite of your ^ Whist, Sally.’ ” 

“But, Sally, now listen. Harry Enfield 
has been standing treat for me and all the 
rest.” 

“ More shame for him to do it, and you to 
take it. Do you think that makes any better 
of it? Don’t I know that he has a wife and 
children at home, who want all he can earn, 
and more than he’ll give them?” again inter- 
rupted the shrill-voiced woman, who was re- 
solved not to be pacified, and insisted that her 
husband should go home then and there. 

“But Harry can afibrd to stand treat for 
once, Sally,” interposed the landlord. “He’s 
had a fortune left him; and I dare say he’ll 
pay for a glass of something to warm you this 
cold night, if you like to take it.” 

“With pleasure,” returned Harry, with 
extra politeness; but his words were almost 
drowned in the response which at the same 
moment broke from Sarah Dyson’s lips : — 


FRANK Johnson's reason. 121 

I take a glass to warm me! I drink of 
what poisons all my happiness and makes my 
husband what he is I Look at him there, and 
look at these children here. I don't want my 
stomach warming with gin. I want my chil- 
dren’s bodies warming with decent clothes, 
and their feet with shoes. I want coals to 
warm my hearthstone, and food for all of us. 
My husband, there, thinks that his beer or his 
gin will stand in place of clothes, shoes, fire 
and food; but my bairns and me'll want a 
deal of teaching before we get that lesson off 
by heart.” 

The woman’s appeal was rude enough, and 
couched in homely language, and her voice 
was hard and harsh; but the most skilled 
orator could not have spoken more to the 
purpose than she did. And where could a 
painter have found aught to illustrate her 
harangue so touchingly as did the cowering, 
shivering, awe-stricken children, with their 
rags quivering under the motion of their 

trembling bodies? At any rate, Sally Dyson's 
11 


122 


IT isn’t right; or, 


arguments were unanswerable, and of all the 
hearers there was not one whose conscience 
did not in some degree reproach him as he 
thus sat an unwilling listener. 

Harry Enfield was the first to break the 
silence that ensued; for, as he was wont to 
observe, it took a good deal to make him hold 
his tongue before either man or woman. 

^‘Didn’t you hear that I mean to pay for 
the drop of drink your husband takes, Mrs. 
Dyson ? The landlord has told you the truth. 
I’ve got a fortune left me.” 

Then I reckon it’s come by some of your 
wife’s kin,” said plain-spoken Sally; ^‘for 
nobody belonging to you was ever worth 
aught, so they couldn’t leave aught.” 

“That doesn’t matter. What’s my wife’s 
is mine, and what’s mine’s my own,” retorted 
Harry, with a rather uncomfortable attempt 
at jocularity. 

“More’s the pity.” 

“ May-be you’ll not say so by-and-by, Mrs. 
Dyson,” was the patronizing reply; “for I 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 123 

wish that my friend John’s family, as well as 
himself, may feel my g^d fortune. And 
though you have been so rude, not to say 
coarse, to me to-night, I mean” — here Harry 
looked round with the air of a king, — 
mean to make each of your children a present 
of a pair of shoes; and the shoemaker, there, 
shall take their measure just now.” 

The whole assembly applauded Harry’s 
generosity once more, and declared that he 
showed a right good spirit, after what Sally 
had said. A grand clinking of glasses and 
shaking of hands followed this magnanimous 
outburst; and the shoemaker, having first 
drained his particular allowance to the health 
and continued good luck of Harry Enfield, 
stepped out of his corner to obey the com- 
mands of the hero of that night. 

Sally Dyson at first refused to allow him 
to take the children’s measure; but at length 
she yielded. ‘‘ It isn’t his money, by rights,” 
she said to herself: ^^it’s Mary’s. But the 
poor bairns may as well have the shoes. It 


124 


IT ISNT eight; or, 


will do them good, and the money is sure to 
go in drink if I stand out. May-be, after all, 
the shoemaker’ll never make them: so that, 
anyway, measuring won’t do any harm. And 
if the shoes do come, — why, all the better. I 
wonder whether Harry has got hold of the 
money, or only expects it?” 

After the shoemaker had done his work 
and resumed his seat, Harry again pressed 
his former offer on Sarah Dyson; but still she 
steadily refused to taste any thing, and urged 
her husband to come home with her. 

'^Nay, nay, Sally: that’s too bad. Let me 
enjoy myself when it costs me nothing. You 
may take the money home : I sha’n’t want it 
to-night,” said John Dyson, handing to his 
wife what remained of his wages, and look- 
ing at Enfield as he spoke. 

Harry graciously nodded his approval, and 
Sarah Dyson, feeling that she had fared better 
than she could have expected to do, was glad 
to hurry off with her sleepy children, in order 
that she might get them a meal and put 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 125 

them to bed before she again sallied forth to 
make her markets with what remained of 
John’s wages after the landlord’s score had 
been deducted. It was not often — ^poor soul ! 
— that she had so much to spend; but, after 
all, it was very little, and she was obliged to 
think, not of her many wants, but ‘^what can 
we possibly do without?” 

To her surprise, the shoemaker was prompt 
in executing Harry Enfield’s order, and on 
the following Thursday brought home four 
pairs of stout shoes for her children. 

“ I aren’t in the habit of working on Mon- 
days, Mrs. Dyson,” said he, with the air of 
one who had conferred no small favour by 
breaking through this his established rule. 
^^But I saw how uncommon badly ofi* your 
youngsters were; and I thought the poor 
things should have their shoes as soon as 
possible.” 

“ I’m much obliged to you, I’m sure. May- 
be, though, Harry Enfield may rue that he 
has ordered the shoes.” 


126 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


^^That doesn’t matter a morsel to me, 
ma’am,” returned the shoemaker. I’ve plenty 
of witnesses to prove that he did give me the 
order, and he’ll be forced to pay, whether he 
likes or no.” 

Sally’s first feeling was one of unmitigated 
satisfaction when she reflected that what the 
shoemaker said was correct. Her children 
were shod, and Harry Enfield must pay. 
Her next thought was, ^‘Yes, but it will be 
with poor Mary’s money, — not his own;” and 
this idea she did not relish. Forthwith she 
placed her four youngsters on as many chairs, 
drew off the shoes, which they were viewing 
with such delight, and, despite the protesta- 
tions and tears of the children, she marched 
off with them in her apron to Harry Enfield’s. 
Only Mary was at home, as it happened; and 
to her she explained her errand. 

''Mary,” said she, "may-be you would hear 
of your husband’s goings-on at the Wheat- 
sheaf last Saturday night, and perhaps some 
one would tell you that I went to take mine 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 127 

home; for I was so near crazed that it made 
no matter what I did.’* 

“ I did hear about it, Sarah. And, indeed, 
I didn't wonder. I can feel for you, with all 
my heart.” 

“I believe you, and thank you, Mrs. En- 
field,” returned Sarah Dyson. ^^As you’ve 
heard so much, perhaps you’ve been told, too, 
how your husband ordered the shoemaker to 
measure my poor barefooted bairns for shoes, 
and that he did it.” 

Yes: I did hear of that, too.” 

** I refused to let him, at first ; then, after- 
wards, I thought most likely they would 
never really be made, and, if they were, it 
would be a good thing for the children. How- 
ever, this afternoon, sure enough, in comes 
the shoemaker with four pairs of real good 
strong shoes, and when I put them on the 
children’s feet they fitted beautiful. But, 
before they’d had ’em on five minutes, I felt 
uncomfortable. I thought to myself, ^ I’ve no 
right to take these things, badly as the young 


128 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


uns want them ; for the money that is coming 
is Mary Enfield’s, and he has no right to 
spend it or squander it in such a way as he 
began to do on Saturday night/ So I took 
the shoes off again, and I put them all in my 
apron, and came to you. Thinks I to myself, 
^ Mary Enfield sha’n’t say that I was the woman 
to take advantage of her husband’s drunken 
whim for my own gain.’ I believe the shoes 
will fit your children, either now or by-and-by : 
so there’ll be nothing lost, Mary, will there?” 

As Sarah Dyson spoke, she poured a little 
shower of new shoes on to the floor before 
Mrs. Enfield. 

Her hearer’s eyes filled with tears as she 
listened. Ah ! she knew well what sort of a 
scene was enacted at the tap-room revel on 
the Saturday night, though she did not wit- 
ness it with her own eyes. Well could she 
picture her husband’s assumption of patronage 
and authority, and the fawning sots around, 
who took advantage of his weakness to in- 
dulge in their own besetting sin at his ex- 


FKANK Johnson’s eeason. 129 

pense. Would these have any after-qualms 
of conscience? Would they reproach them- 
selves with diminishing the bequest of her 
good uncle to herself? No, indeed! She 
knew that the same scene would be repeated 
whenever an opportunity offered, even though 
not one penny of that legacy should ever 
benefit herself, for whom it was intended. 
And here was this poor woman, with courage 
and honesty of purpose enough to conquer 
the temptation offered by her own sore need 
and — what was harder to bear — the wants of 
her children, come to tender back what would 
have made her little ones comfortable, because 
she could not satisfy herself that it was right 
to retain it! 

Mary did not hesitate a moment as to 
the answer she should make. Quickly she 
gathered up the little shoes, and, lifting Sarah 
Dyson’s apron, put them in, and pushed the 
ends of the apron into her visitor’s hand. 
^^Take the shoes back, Sarah; take them 

back, and my best wishes with them. I hope 
I 


130 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


your poor children will feel the comfort of 
them. I wish every penny that was spent in 
yon place on Saturday night had gone to 
clothe some poor tattered creatures: then I 
would never have grumbled, but been thank- 
ful. To think, though, that Harry should go 
and spend in drunken rioting what my poor 
uncle worked to gather, is hard to bear.” 

It was your uncle, then, that left the 
money? I said it was some of your kin, for 
nobody belonging to your husband ever had 
any to leave. They were all too much like 
Harry himself for that. I’m more obliged 
to you than I can tell you, Mary. It went 
sorely against me, in one sense, to pull these 
shoes off the poor little things’ feet ; and I can 
tell you they did cry when they saw me make 
off with them all in my apron. They were 
so proud, you know, when they looked at 
their toes; for it was a fresh thing to have 
them neatly shod.” 

Mary Enfield smiled again, and shared in the 
poor mother’s pleasure at the idea of restoring 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 131 

the coverings to those little feet, and said, 
wish the children health to wear them.” 
Thank you a hundred times, Mrs. Enfield; 
and I’m sure I wish you and yours health to 
enjoy your fortune.” 

“It is not a fortune, Sarah. It’s two thou- 
sand dollars, — which would be a nice thing to 
fall back upon, but I doubt if I shall ever see 
a farthing of it. Most likely it will be spent 
before it comes to hand at all; for if Harry 
goes on as he has begun, I see no other chance. 
He had been a good deal steadier for a long 
time, and taken more care of his children.” 

“Ah, that fire did him good, I think.” 

“It did, — a deal. He was so shocked at the 
idea that he might have caused the deaths of 
all our children, that he never, till last Satur- 
day night, got into such a stupid, senseless 
state again.” 

“How curious it seems, now!” said Sarah, 
musingly. “One would have thought that 
for a man to set his house on fire was a piece 
of bad enough luck; and yet, after all, good 


132 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


came out of it. And, again, one would think 
that for a man to get money left him was a 
piece of good luck; and here it is just bring- 
ing back the evil that the other took away.” 

^‘That thought has been in my mind many 
a time since Saturday, I can tell you. But 
I must just leave it. I can but do my best, 
and trust in God. My life would have been 
a dark one if it hadn’t been that I could look 
to Him in my day of trouble.” 

Sarah assented, and then rose to return to 
her children. She was just opening the door, 
when a sudden idea struck her. ^^Oh, Mrs. 
Enfield,” said she, ^^did you ever find out 
who the man was that saved the children 
when the cottage got on fire ?” 

^^No, Sarah: we never could get to know, 
though we took pains enough to find out. It 
was a wonderful thing, and I should have 
liked to tell that man, whoever he was, what 
a mother felt towards him ; and Harry, queer 
as he often is, I do believe would have laid 
down his life for the man that saved his little 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 133 

lad. But we neither had the chance to say 
nor do. However, I never kneel down to 
ask God’s blessing for my children, but I a,sk 
it for that man that gave them back to me.” 

It was strange, Sarah Dyson said; and 
then, after renewed thanks, she hastened 
home, and restored, with their new shoes, 
happiness to the hearts and smiles to the 
faces of her children. 

And Mary Enfield sat sorrowfully plying 
her needle, and thinking of her absent hus- 
band, — too proud to work, with the prospect 
of his fortune' before his eyes, and devoting 
his idle hours to vice. And . under such cir- 
cumstances, is it surprising that she con- 
sidered the coming legacy rather a misfortune 
than a ‘‘stroke of luckf and murmured to 
herself the prayer, “ In all time of our wealth. 
Good Lord, deliver us” ? 

The money would have been wealth to people 
in their position, had her husband been willing 
to work with her ; but now she dreaded lest the 

intended benefit should prove a hidden curse. 

12 


134 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


CHAPTEK VII. 

FEANK Johnson’s foeebodings, and haeey 
Enfield’s way of “ tuening ovee a new 

LEAF.” 

'I 

T must not be supposed that Harry 
Enfield was without money during 
these few days. On the contrary, 
he whose word would not have been 
accepted as a pledge for the repay-' 
ment of a few shillings a week ago, now found 
it an easy matter to borrow. Mine host of 
the Wheatsheaf, who had ere this declined to 
trust him another glass of gin or pint of beer, 
now generously offered to advance Harry the 
money he might want until his ^Hortune” 
should arrive. To be sure, Harry gave his 
note of hand for it, and the landlord com- 
forted himself for the temporary absence of 




FRANK Johnson’s reason. 135 

the money with the thought that a very little 
while would see the greater part of it in his 
hands again, and he should still have it to 
claim, with interest in addition, when his 
customer received his fortune. 

As a thing of course, Frank Johnson heard 
of the ^'stroke of luck,” and told the news 
to his wife. He was still struggling unsuc- 
cessfully against the powerful trade opposition 
of his late employer, and feeling more and 
more convinced that it would end badly for 
himself. He added no comment after he had 
made his wife acquainted with the particulars 
of Enfield’s legacy and subsequent conduct, 
but sat as if absorbed in thought. 

She rose, and touched him on the shoulder, 
know what makes you so thoughtful, 
Frank,” she said. 

The smile was evidently forced which ap- 
peared on Frank’s face for a moment, and 
then faded into the anxious look that had 
been most common there of late. You are 
thinking,” she continued, ^^of the strange 


136 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


freaks of fortune, Frank. Here is this En- 
field, who has wasted so much, and abused 
past blessings and mercies, suddenly placed 
in a position to waste still more. He has 
already begun to do it, you say; and you, 
who have been a kind husband, a loving 
father, an honest and industrious man, are 
struggling against increasing cares and anxi- 
eties.” 

^^Ay, wife, you are right. I was just 
thinking to myself what a blessing suclfa 
legacy would have been to me. I could have 
returned Mr. Philips his money, and had 
something to spare to pay ready cash, instead 
of being obliged to incur debts and give notes, 
and so on. And I felt withju my own mind 
that I should have used such a blessing well. 
Yet it is given to a man who abuses it, and 
will benefit nobody, least of all himself, either 
in body or soul ; while I must go on plodding, 
plodding, from day to day, — often too anxious 
to sleep when night comes. I was fit to ask 
myself ” 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 137 

* 

^‘Hush, Frank! I know,” said liis wife, 
as her pale face turned paler still. ‘‘We 
must not ask ourselves, ‘Is it right?’ when 
God permits these things; and you must not 
take up youi* old saying, “ It isn’t right, in this 
case.” 

“Still, it is hard to understand; though 
God knows I do not wish to murmur, even 
though things go contrary with me at present. 
I hope I shall be able to do what’s right to 
other people.” 

“We must strive and trust still, Frank. 
And, after all, should you like to change 
places with Harry Enfield, or should I like 
to be his wife? Is he happier, think you, 
when he goes home reeling from the Wheat- 
sheaf, even though he may have money in 
his pocket, than my poor husband with all 
his anxieties ? And poor Mary, as she listens 
for his footstep, all unsteady as it must be, — 
is she half as happy as I am, though I have 
sometimes to share troubles with you that she 

does not at present know ?” 

12 * 


138 


IT isn't eight; oe, 


Frank looked in his good wife’s face with 
honest affection and admiration. God bless 
you!” said he. ^^You put things in the true 
light. A minute since, my heart was full of 
murmurings, though my tongue didn’t say 
them. Now I am ashamed of myself, and 
only feel that it isn’t right for me to question 
God’s wisdom, goodness or mercy in allowing 
such things to be, though we poor blind 
human beings cannot understand them.” 

^*1 think we can understand so much in 
this case, Frank, that you would not like to 
change places with the man whom you were 
inclined to envy a little while since.” 

No, indeed I not for a hundred times Harry 
Enfield’s Hortune,’ as those poor, sottish com- 
panions of his call his wife’s little legacy. 
But, now, to leave his affairs and think of our 
own. I am losing ground, in spite of all I 
can do. I have worked hard, and been as • 
economical as possible in business; you have 
done your part in household matters, and 
yet I am getting poorer. You see, a man 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 139 

with a large capital, like Mr. Aldridge, can 
take his own money in his hand and buy more 
advantageously than I can. Then, again, 
that enables him to take contracts on lower 
terms; and if his money does not come in 
again exactly at the time expected, he suffers 
no inconvenience from the delay. With me 
things are exactly opposite, and I have in- 
terest — though not at a high rate, certainly — 
to pay for a great part of my little capital. 
If I have to wait and give long credit, I suffer 
again, for I must pay for that. But why 
need I tell you this, when you know all my 
concerns as well as I do myself? Only there 
is one thing I must say. I doubt whether 
I was wise in attempting to carry on a busi- 
ness with borrowed capital at all.” 

^'You did very well for the first two years, 
Frank.” 

Yes, but then I had not the active oppo- 
sition to contend against that I have now. 
And, really, as I look back on the time when 
I worked through the week and brought 


140 


IT isn't eight; oe, 


home my wages on the Saturday night, I 
think I was better off then than I am now : 
at any rate, I had far less anxiety, and I 
know we never owed any thing. We made 
our little do. And now it is hard work to 
get the money together to meet payments, 
and for the* men’s wages. Besides, I have 
always the feeling that I am in debt. I’m 
sure of this, that if all working-men could 
taste the . anxieties and troubles that attend 
the carrying on of a business, they would not 
envy their employers as they often do.” 

believe that, Frank. But, really, now- 
a-days very few people think of being con- 
tented in that state of life to which it has 
pleased God to call them. Everybody seems 
to be trying to push himself up a bit higher, 
without thinking whether he is fit for such a 
place, or if it will make him happier or no.” 

Frank sat silently thinking for a few mo- 
ments, and then said, “I can’t help feeling 
uneasy about what Mr. Philips will say.” 

^‘Say, Frank! Why, he cannot blame you 


FEANK JOHNSON S EEASON. 


141 


for not making money so fast as you did at 
first.” 

But he will blame me for ill success. Mr. 
Philips is very proud when those he helps do 
well, but I do not think he would have any 
sympathy with a man who disappointed his 
expectations. He succeeded at last, in spite 
of many difficulties; and I am sure he thinks 
it is in any man’s power to do the same. 
Mr. Philips has been very kind to me, Eliza- 
beth, but I feel that if I fail in this struggle 
with the world I shall lose his good will. 
Not that he will be hard or harsh with me 
so far as money matters are concerned, 
but ” 

^^He will simply withdraw his hand; in 
fact, let you go'" 

^^That is just my thought.” 

Frank Johnson’s estimate of Mr. Philips’s 
character was a correct one. The sympathies 
of the proprietor of Sunny Lee went ever 
with the man who conquered difficulties, — not 
with him who either allowed them to conquer 


142 


IT isn’t right; or, 

him or was compelled to yield before their 
pressure. 

Yet Frank, though depressed, was not 
utterly cast down. He resolved to make a 
brave stand against these busings difficulties, 
and not to yield so long as he had a hope of 
retrieving his position. Only he was equally 
determined that under no circumstances should 
Mr. Philips be a loser from the confidence 
he had reposed in him when, trusting simply 
to his honesty, he furnished him with the 
means of beginning business. '‘No,” he 
said, “I would rather sell off every stick I 
have than that Mr. Philips should be able to 
say that Frank Johnson had both disap- 
pointed his expectations and abused his con- 
fidence. The first he may have to say; the 
last, never.” 

Perhaps another and less praiseworthy, but 
equally natural, feeling, might assist in impel- 
ling Frank to continue the struggle. After 
the ungenerous course of conduct latterly 
adopted by Mr. Aldridge, Jie did not like to 


FEANK JOHNSON S SEASON. 


143 


be driven out of the field by the rivalry of 
bis former master, who, after Frank’s faithful 
service, might have been contented to see 
him take a little slice out of his own large 
loaf without grudging it. 

As to Harry Enfield, he was not kept out 
of his fortune long. The legacy was soon 
paid over to him, and, but for the influence 
possessed over him by his little son, it would 
soon have been spent. But, as Mary said, 
“It was wonderful what notice her husband 
took of that lad’s sayings, and how his father 
would talk to him about things.” 

So it fell out that when Harry Enfield, 
junior, saw his father exulting over the actual 
possession of the money, his young face be- 
came sad, instead of reflecting the mirthful 
expression of his father’s. The boy was a 
fine sharp lad, and in his young life had seen 
sorrow enough to make him thoughtful. Be- 
sides, since he had enjoyed the society of a 
better class of boys and the instruction of a 
superior master, he had learned to think with 


144 IT isn’t eight; or, 

shame of his own father’s degrading conduct. 
So now he ventured where the mother durst 
not interfere by word or deed, and said, 
“Father, I wish you would stay away from 
the Wheatsheaf. Don’t let the landlord have 
all the money : it would make us so comfort- 
able at home.” 

His father turned sharply round to Mary, 
and said, “ You set the boy to say this. He 
would never think of it unless some one put 
him up to it.” 

The trembling wife had not time to speak 
before her boy answered. Stretching himself 
proudly to his full height, and looking affec- 
tionately at his mother’s face, and then, un- 
abashed by the accusation, at his father, he 
answered, “ No one told me' to say a word. 
I did think about it myself. Mother never 
knew that I was going to speak to you, but I 
couldn’t help it. You may believe me; for I 
never tell lies.” 

The lad’s unflinching attitude and earnest 
words softened the father, who, amid all the 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 145 

impurity of his life and language, wished — 
ay, longed — to stand first in the love of this 
his darling child. ^^I’ll believe you, Harry, 
my boy," returned Enfield. ^^But what made 
you say you couldn’t help speaking to me?" 

^^Oh, ever so many things. Sometimes," 
— the lad blushed, and seemed half afraid 
to go on, but he didj after he caught sight 
of a look on his mother’s face that was more 
than words, — ‘^sometimes, father, I hear the 
boys in school talk about you when you have 
been at the Wheatsheaf," — this was an inge- 
nious way of alluding to the times when his 
father had been seen in a state of intoxication, 
— ^^and they say that soon all the money 
will be gone, and, as you don’t work now, we 
shall be as poor as ever." 

A wrathful expression was growing on the 
father's face, and a half-smothered oath burst 
from his lips and terrified the boy into silence. 

The meddlesome young scoundrels ! I won- 
der what they mean by talking about my 
concerns ? They deserve such a thrashing as 

K 13 


146 IT isn’t eight; oe, 

— but I’ll call on the master and see if he 
can’t stop their tongues.” 

Please don’t, father! please don’t!” pleaded 
the boy. They didn’t speak unkindly; they 
only said it was such a pity, for if father’s 
money all went at the Wheatsheaf, may-be 
I should have to leave off school. And, oh, 
dear! I am miserable when people say such 
things about you!” 

The boy broke down here. He loved his 
father, in spite of all the discomfort that his 
misconduct had brought into his home; and, 
laying his head on his father’s shoulder, he 
wept bitterly. 

^^Hush, Harry, lad! hush! You mustn’t 
cry. Why, I thought you were too much of 
a man! Come, come; this will never do. You 
shall not be taken from school: you shall 
have such a chance as I never had when I 
was a boy, if you’ll only be a good lad. I’ll 
work for you, never fear; and this money 
sha’n’t be spent. It shall be put in the bank, 
or somewhere ; and we’ll have the interest of 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 147 

itj as well as of that other money that your 
old uncle left for you children.” 

The boy could hardly believe his ears. He 
lifted his astonished, tearful face from his 
father’s shoulder, and stood in silent surprise, 
while his mother — nay, we cannot picture her 
emotion. 

^‘I’m in earnest, Harry; for all you and 
your mother stand looking as though you 
were struck all of a heap. I’ll pay my debt 
to the landlord, — he’s cheated me out of great 
part of it, — and we’ll have a few more com- 
fortable things into the house, and clothes, 
and such-like. But fifteen hundred dollars 
shall be put by; and the interest of it, with 
that of the other two thousand, will do us 
good. It’s time I began to look at home ; for, 
after all, when one thinks about it, I don’t 
believe if I spent every halfpenny of it at the 
Wheatsheaf, yonder, and then we were all 
starving, that the landlord would give me a 
pint of beer, or you a bit of bread!” 

Mary might have said that she had often 


148 


IT isn’t eight; or, 


urged this plea,, and that circumstances had 
repeatedly proved its justice; but she was 
contented to be silent, and to receive it as if 
an oracle had spoken, when her husband 
adopted the sentiment as his own. As she 
afterwards said to a friend, — 

was frightened when the boy began to 
speak about the money; for, though I never 
told him to do it, I was sure the father would 
blame me. And he did; but I never spoke. 
I just prayed to God with all my heart that 
He would put words into the boy’s mouth 
and soften his father’s heart. And so He 
did. My prayer was heard ; and I bless God 
for His great goodness, and give Him the 
honour due to His Name; for, without His 
help, how could that child have softened his 
father’s heart and turned him the right way?” 

How, indeed? But God chooses not his in- 
struments for their worldly strength or wisdom. 

Young Harry’s tears were dried and his 
heart comforted by his father’s assurance ; and 
straightway the man amused himself by set- 


FEANK Johnson’s reason. 149 

ting the lad to calculate how much interest 
the money would bring yearly, and again what 
that would give per week and per day. After 
this was done, he rose from his seat, saying, — 
^^Now, Harry, I shall just go and pay the 
landlord and other people what I owe them, 
and put the rest of the money in the bank.” 

Mary’s face blanched at this remark; ^Hor,” 
thought she, ‘‘if he goes into the Wheatsheaf 
with all that money, he’s as sure to be drawn 
in by his old mates as ever he was before.” 
Perhaps the child, too, guessed this, — for he 
had had bitter lessons in this kind of wisdom; 
and, rising also, he said, — 

“ May I go with you, father ?” 

“ You may go with me to the bank, if you 
like, — I shall call there first ; but you wouldn’t 
like to call at the Wheatsheaf, should you, 
Harry ? I must pay the landlord, you know.” 

“ There’s no harm in that, father ; but may 
I wait outside till you come?” 

There was a struggle visible even in the 
man’s face ; and he was at a loss whether or no 


150 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


to be angry at Harry’s persistency. But again 
the mother’s prayers were neither unheard nor 
unheeded, and the better thought conquered. 

“Ay, Harry, you may go with me. I’ve 
made up my mind that your fine school-fellows 
sha’n’t have a chance of making you ashamed 
to own your father: so come on. And, mo- 
ther,” he added, addressing his wife, who had 
but seldom, of late, heard so sweet a name 
applied to her by her husband, — “mother, if 
you’ll put your new black gown and bonnet on, 
we’ll go and do a bit of shopping. I think it 
will be just as well to spend the money on 
those things we want for the house and chil- 
dren, as to keep it.” 

Mary thought so too ; and well pleased was 
she to receive such an invitation. We may 
be sure she did not keep the two Harrys wait- 
ing, but was ready before they made their ap- 
pearance, though they were not long absent, 
and the younger of the two whispered, — 

“ Father was hardly a minute in the Wheat- 
sheaf, though the landlord followed him to the 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 151 

door and wanted him to stop ; and he didn’t 
look at all pleased when father said he’d pro- 
mised to come home and go somewhere with 
you. He said he had thought father was not a 
man to be tied to a woman’s apron-string; but 
he believed he was going to turn like Frank 
Johnson, who couldn’t be parted from his wife 
for one evening that he might have a glass 
with a friend.” 

“And what did your father say to that, 
Harry?’ 

“Father did look cross; and he said, ^You’re 
mistaken, Mr. Sykes. I’m not going to be like 
Frank Johnson. He is going the way to lose 
his bit of money, — or I’m no judge; but I’m 
going to try to'iieep mine.’ ” 

“Thank God!”-said Mary Enfield, fervently. 
“ It may be that the legacy will prove a stroke 
of luck, — or, rather, a great blessing, — after 
all.” 

“And,” said the lad, with a bright, glad 
countenance, “just after we left the landlord 
at his door, a man came up to father, and 


152 


IT isn’t right; or, 


said, ^ You’ll give us a glass, won't you, Harry ?’ 
It was the same man whose children father 
bought the shoes for.” 

'' Sarah Dyson’s husband, you mean ?” 

Yes ; but father shook his head. I had 
hold of his hand, and he seemed to give mine 
a tight squeeze.” Mary thought to herself 
that probably the touch of that childish hand 
was a safeguard against the allurements of 
the landlord and the boon companion. “ Then, 
when Mr. Dyson said, ^ You’ll be at the Sheaf 
to-night, Harry ?’ father said, ‘ I think not to- 
night, Dyson;’ and we came home for you.” 

Probably Harry Enfield guessed what his 
son’s whispered communications were about; 
but, at any rate, he did not interrupt them, for 
the sight of his boy’s happy face warmed his 
own heart to a sense of the domestic pleasures 
which he had long despised, and indeed de- 
stroyed, by evil conduct. For the first time 
for many a day, the husband, wife and son 
went out together. The two girls, who came 
in from school at the very nick of time, were 


FRANK Johnson's reason. 153 

left housekeepers, and told to have tea ready 
against the return of the shopping-party. It 
must be owned that they were hardly willing 
to be left behind, when they saw who were 
going. However, stay they did, and proved 
themselves trustworthy little personages, too. 
Truly they had their reward, when sundry 
parcels arrived from the different shops, and 
they were shown that, though absent from 
the shopping-party, their comforts and inter- 
ests had been remembered. 

One little incident which befell Harry Enfield 
and his wife on their way home must not be 
forgotten. They met Mr. and Mrs. Aldridge. 
The latter observed them before her husband 
did. “ Why, I declare, John,” she said, won- 
ders will never cease ! There are Harry En- 
field and his wife out together; and how happy 
Mary looks, and so neat in her tidy mourning ! 
Let us stop and speak to them.” 

“ I thought he was quite rude to you that 
Saturday night when I was from home,” re- 
plied Mr. Aldridge. 


154 


IT ISNT eight; or, 


But the man was tipsy, and, besides that, 
almost wild about the news he had just re- 
ceived. I should like to speak to Mary. I 
have not seen her for some weeks past.” 

John Aldridge assented; and when they met 
the Enfields, his wife spoke in her most cheery 
tones to Mary, wished her all sorts of good, 
and remarked what a fine boy young Harry 
was growing; and such was the effect produced 
upon Harry, senior, by the sound of these 
cordial words, though they were not addressed 
to himself, that for once in his life he forced 
that stubborn tongue of his into something 
like an apology. ‘H’m afraid I rather forgot 
myself the last time I saw you, ma’am,” he 
said; ‘Hut you must please excuse me. I had 
had some drink, and ” 

“To be sure, Harry; and you were a bit 
excited by something else. We’ll not say any 
more about that now; for I like to forget the 
unpleasant part of things, if I can. And 
when I look at you to-day I can hardly fancy it 
is the same man that came into the counting- 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 155 

house when I was paying wages that Satur- 
day night. I’m very glad to see you and Mary 
going out together, like my husband and 
me.” And the little woman looked up at her 
tall, stout partner, as with a pleasant sense of 
protection, adding, “I should not like to be 
without Mr. Aldridge’s company after business 
hours; and we wives are all alike in that 
respect.” 

Mrs. Aldridge, though one of the frankest 
of women, was extremely careful how she 
worded her speech on this occasion, and subse- 
quently exulted in her successful diplomacy. 
She managed to please Harry Enfield, first by 
meeting his apology half-way, and next by the 
manner in which she linked Mary with herself 
by saying, We wives are all alike , — not to 
mention the allusion she incidentally made to 
the peculiar attractions of Harry’s society to 
his own partner. Then, when she further 
praised the boy, and told Harry, junior, that 
she had heard of his industry at school, and 
hoped he would grow up a gopd and useful 


156 


IT isn't right; or, 


man, the father's pride and gratification reached 
their height. At the same time, another sort 
of pride melted away before the genial words 
of the builder's wife; and Enfield said, — 

You are always forgiving, Mrs. Aldridge; 
and I felt so vexed at myself, afterwards, for 
having behaved disrespectfully to you ! How- 
ever, may-be I shall make up for the past by 
being a better workman than I have been, if 
Mr. Aldridge likes to give me my old bench 
again." 

It would not be easy to say which of Enfield's 
hearers was most surprised; for even Mary, 
who had heard before of her husband's inten- 
tion to go to work again, never thought he 
would bend so far as to return to his old master, 
after his boastful words, but supposed he would 
seek employment elsewhere. 

Mr. Aldridge, too, was pleased, and at once 
answered, “You can come back if you choose, 
Enfield ; and I think you show your good sense 
in wishing to do it. You are worth as good 
wages as any man I know, when you are steady ; 


FKANK Johnson’s eeason. 157 

and you shall have them from me while you 
keep so.” 

Then it’s a bargain, Mr. Aldridge. You’ll 
see me in the old shop on Monday morning 
next.” 

Why not to-morrow, Enfield ?” interposed 
Mrs. Aldridge, who always thought of what 
would benefit others, and strove to suggest it 
where she could not insist on its being put in 
practice. “ To-morrow will only be Thursday; 
and you will earn half a week’s wages between 
this and Saturday night. Mr. Aldridge is very 
busy at present, and will, I know, be glad of 
an extra hand.” 

Mary thanked the speaker with a grateful 
look; for she saw that Harry was just in the 
mood to be led, and she had so often been dis- 
appointed by seeing his good resolutions melt 
away before the first temptation, that she quite 
dreaded the interval between that and Monday. 
If spent in idleness, Harry was almost sure to 
be led into temptation. But Mrs. Aldridge 
carried the day. Enfield answered that he 

14 


158 


IT isn’t eight; or, 


didn’t see as it would make any difference to 
him whether he began work the next morning 
or waited till Monday; and, to be sure, if it 
would be any accommodation to Mr. Aldridge, 
he’d begin the next day, with the greatest 
pleasure. 

Thus it was settled, and the parties separated 
in high good humour. Mr. Aldridge was espe- 
cially pleased ; for he had calculated that Harry 
Enfield would be too proud to work, and that 
he should have another opponent in business. 
“ And though, my dear,” said he to his wife, “it 
would not be long before I drove such opposition 
as his off my path, still it costs money to do it, 
and it is a great deal better to have Harry back 
at work and serving me with his ready hands. 
That was a good hit of yours about his coming 
to-morrow. I should have said, ^ Come on Mon- 
day, Enfield ;’ but it is a good thing to have a 
sharp little wife beside one, sometimes.” 

“You see, I considered that in the next three 
days he might go off drinking again, if he had 
nothing to do. And, apart from the interest I 


FRANK Johnson's reason. 159 

felt in Harry’s continuing steady on your ac- 
count, I really thought I could do any thing to 
keep him right, for Mary’s own sake. How 
happy the poor woman looked to-night!” 

“Yes: Harry has had an excellent wife, 
whom he has treated cruelly; and yet, I’ll 
answer for it, the woman will forgive and for- 
get all that is past, if he will only alter now. 
But I doubt his persevering in the right way.” 

“We must encourage him all we can, John. 
I will; for, having a good husband myself, I 
know and am thankful for my domestic hap- 
piness, and would do all I could to secure the 
same for another woman, let her station in 
life be what it might.” 

Leaving Mr. and Mrs. Aldridge to take their 
way home, we will for a moment follow Harry 
Enfield and Mary. 

“ I dare say you didn’t think I should go to 
my old place again, Mary : did you ?” 

“No, John: that I didn’t.” 

“And I don’t know that I should, either, — 
though I wanted to go back, — only we just 


160 


IT isn’t right; or, 


dropped on liim and his wife so nicely, and it 
was done I hardly know how.” 

Mrs. Aldridge has such a sweet, pleasant 
way with her ! She does as much good with 
her tongue as many women do harm with 
theirs.” 

“That’s true enough. But there’s some- 
thing else that made me hang to Mr. Al- 
dridge. He means to upset Frank Johnson; 
and he’ll do it. I can’t abide that fellow, 
with his smooth words. I’ve not forgot how 
I was ordered out of Sunny Lee, and all 
through him, — turned out like a bad fellow.” 

Mary was sorry to observe her husband’s 
rising wrath, and to mark that the old bitter 
spirit was not a whit subdued. She was afraid 
to speak. She could not agree with her hus- 
band’s dislike to Frank, and she dared not 
condemn it: therefore she remained silent. 

As to Harry, he did not seem to expect an 
answer, but, after a brief pause, continued, 
“ Yes ! F rank Johnson caused me to be turned 
out of that purse-proud old manufacturer's 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 161 

house; and I dare say he is pleasing him- 
self with the notion that I shall spend all our 
money, and that our young uns will be in rags 
again directly; but 111 let him see whether, 
with all his fine sense and pretending to be so 
good, hell do more for his boys than 111 do for 
mine, or get to be a richer man, either. I shall 
live to see him poor enough, I believe ; and if 
I could but know that old Philips had taken 
against him, I should be happy.” 

Fortunately, young Harry did not hear his 
father’s vindictive words. They were not very 
far from home when Enfield began to speak 
about Frank Johnson; and the boy had just 
run forward to apprize the girls that their 
parents were coming, and to fill them with 
delightful anticipations with regard to the 
purchases made during this extraordinary 
shopping excursion. After their arrival, both 
parents and children found abundant employ- 
ment, first round the tea-table, and afterwards 
in criticizing the various new articles of dress, 

&c. Ho wonder the evening passed quickly, 
L 14* 


162 


IT isn’t eight; or, 


and that Harry found that it was bedtime 
before he began to miss the Wheatsheaf and 
its company. 

Mrs. Enfield rejoiced at this unexpected 
change for the better in her husband. Yet 
she rejoiced with trembling, — because his very 
motives in thus changing his habits arose from 
a spirit of envy and hatred against his unoffend- 
ing neighbour. If he did but change because 
he was sensible of the sinfulness of being a 
drunkard, a sv/earer, a waster of strength, time 
and opportunities, I should have tenfold cause 
to be glad. If I could hope that the Spirit 
of God has convinced him of sin and led 
him to trust in Christ for grace and strength 
to overcome his evil habits, I should rejoice 
with great joy. But I doubt — I doubt that, 
if it hadn’t been for his wanting to surpass 
Frank Johnson, not all the knowledge of right 
that he really has, or love for the boy and the 
rest of us, would have moved him a single 
step from the wrong road. But still I must 
be thankful for this measure of good. I must 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 163 

pray for him; and perhaps, hy-and-by, his 
heart may be softened. The practice of what 
is right may lead him to love it for its own 
sake.” 

And the blessed words of encouragement 
which had cheered and comforted Mary on 
darker days than this, came into her mind to 
cheer and comfort her again: — “For what 
knowest thou, 0 wife, whether thou shalt save 
thy husband ?” 


164 


IT isn’t eight; or, 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A NEW ACQUAINTANCE AND A NEW UNDER- 
TAKING. 



' SHORT time before the events 
narrated in the last chapter, a 
new-comer settled in Millfield. He 
was a master-bricklayer, named 
Bateman, and more than once he 


and Frank Johnson had had business trans- 
actions together. Indeed, Mr. Bateman had 
acted (so thought Frank) in an unusually libe- 
ral spirit towards him, and one which showed 
in still stronger contrast the opposite course 
pursued by his former employer. When the 
bricklayer entered into a contract for the erec- 
tion of a building, he made a point of offering 
the joiners’-work to Frank, and on at least 
fair terms. This did much towards reviving 


FRANK JOHNSON'S REASON. 


165 


our old friend s drooping spirits and making 
him labour with renewed energy. Moreover, 
it was rather a pleasant surprise for him to 
find that his former tormentor, Harry Enfield, 
had decided on returning to work for Mr. 
Aldridge. 

“I fully reckoned on having more opposi- 
tion from Enfield,” he told his wife; ‘^but I 
find this will not be the case. I am glad that 
he is taking a turn the right way, and that 
his money is likely to be a comfort, instead 
of a curse, to his wife and family. May God 
bless and prosper him, and give him strength 
to persevere! Perhaps, some day, you and 
Mary Enfield and your two husbands may be 
good friends and neighbours again.” 

Mrs. Johnson heartily echoed the wish, and 
thought it quite possible, knowing, as she 
did, that her husband's forgiving disposition 
and Christian feeling would prevent his re- 
calling past grievances or allowing them to 
interfere for the hindrance of future friendly 
intercourse. 


166 


IT isn’t right; or, 


We, wlio have seen what were Harry En- 
field’s feelings towards Frank Johnson, know 
how little chance there is of such intercourse 
being established yet a while. 

The conversation between Frank and his 
wife was interrupted by the entrance of Bate- 
man, or, rather, by his rap at the door. It 
was evening, when Frank was sure to be 
found by his own fireside ; and Mr. Bateman’s 
inquiry for his fellow-tradesman was answered 
by an invitation to come in. 

“I thought I should find you here, John- 
son,” was the first remark of the new-comer; 
^^and very glad I am that you are here, for 
I want to talk to you about a bit of business. 
Here is a chance for both of us to make a 
little fortune, if you like to join me in trying 
for it.” 

‘'That’s a good hearing,” replied Frank, 
cheerfully; “for, to tell you the truth, I have 
had enough to do, lately, to keep what I have, 
without any chance of adding to it.” 

“Ah, well, you can look at some papers 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 167 

I’ve brought, and then see what you think 
about it.” 

Bateman pulled out plans and specifications, 
and the two men laid their heads together to 
consider them. For a couple of hours they 
talked and calculated; and then Frank said, 

I think I thoroughly understand this affair. 
There is a possibility — nay, a likelihood — of 
making a very large profit, if we have a fair 
amount of success; but there is also the cer- 
tainty of a great risk if we do undertake it. 
And I’m not fond of deep speculation. It is 
so much like gambling that I think it isn’t 
right.” 

^^Come, now; that’s too bad,” returned 
Bateman. ^‘Mrs. Johnson, just listen to me, 
— for I know your good man talks business to 
you. Here is a piece of work to be done, in 
which many a thousand of bricks and feet 
of timber will have to be used. Moreover, 
it is a right and a necessary work, and one 
that must be done by somebody. Business 
men have declared that it is practicable. I 


168 


IT isn’t bight; ob, 


have given my best powers to considering it; 
and I see nothing to prevent it. Only, there 
are difficulties and obstacles of no every-day 
nature to overcome. But then, again, to 
make up for these difficulties, the margin of 
profit will be great in proportion. In fact, it 
will be something enormous ; and it only wants 
clear heads and strong hands to manage so 
as to win this profit. Now, I think your 
steady, persevering husband is just the man 
to grapple with difficulties and to overcome 
them. That done, he will have to hold out 
both his hands to grasp his gains. Now, he 
and I are not very old acquaintances, but 
still we have done a few bits of work together, 
and he knows something about my way of 
transacting business.” 

Here Bateman paused and looked at Frank, 
who nodded assent and added, I am bound 
to say, Mr. Bateman, that in your dealings 
with me you have shown a fair and liberal 
spirit.” 

I knew you would acknowledge that. And 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 169 

now, thougli we are not old acquaintances, 
don’t you think if I were a man that was 
inclined to act deceitfully and shabbily, or 
in the habit of doing it, you would have 
found it out before now? I believe that a 
fellow’s natural disposition is as sure to peep 
out at a single business transaction as to be 
found out after a long acquaintance with his 
mode of action.” 

There is some truth in that,” owned 
Frank. 

^^Well, then, about this affair. I don’t 
want to shift my responsibility on to another 
person’s shoulders, or to ask him to take all 
the risk and to leave me the certainty of all 
the profits. I simply want a partner. The 
work is one that must be executed partly by 
a person in my way of business, partly by a 
worker in wood. I am resolved on sending 
in estimates for it; and as Mr. Johnson and I 
have agreed well and been mutually satisfied 
so far, I come to him and say, ^Will you join 
me again?"' 


15 


170 


IT isn't right; or, 


^'I'm very mucli obliged to you for tbe 
offer, at any rate.” 

^^And you’re very welcome. As I said 
before, I don’t ask you to take a risk in which 
I have no share: so, now, what say you?” 

Frank paused and pondered, then answered, 
“I can’t decide to-night. It is not like an 
ordinary job : so it requires rather more con- 
sideration than I usually have to give these 
things. You must leave the plans and calcu- 
lations with me until to-morrow, I must 
^ sleep upon it,’ as the saying is, before I give 
a positive answer.” 

^^To be sure: nothing can be fairer. Think 
it over, and to-morrow evening I’ll drop in 
again, and we’ll settle it one way or another. 
Now I must be off. It is getting late, and 
you and I are both early risers. We have to 
be up with the lark, if we mean to feather 
our nests. We are not like some master- 
tradesmen, who have made their fortune and 
can afford to lie in bed. You know the old 
rhyme, Mrs. Johnson, — 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 171 

* He that would thrive must rise by five ; 

He that has thriven may lie till seven.’ 

We must not lie till seven till we have done 
this job I’ve been talking to your husband 
about. Then we shall have a chance; for I 
fancy we shall be numbered among those 
' that have thriven,^ I wish you both a good 
night.” And almost with the sound of his 
voice, the echo of Mr. Bateman’s footsteps 
began to die away in the distance, so rapid 
were his movements. 

Of course you want to know what all our 
talk has been about,” said Frank, when his 
wife returned to the fireside. 

^^Yes; I should like to know, if you think 
it is any thing I can understand. I wouldn’t 
ask while Mr. Bateman and you were talking; 
though I felt rather curious.” 

“And I always wish you to know. So, now, 
listen. These plans are for a new sluice. 
There will be a great deal of brickwork; and 
there will be fiood-gates, and other matters in 
wood, that would fall to my share if I took 


172 


IT isn’t eight; ok, 


it to do in company with Bateman. And 
both of us would act under a gentleman who 
is a civil engineer and architect and who has 
planned the work. If the affair were suc- 
cessfully completed, it would be an immensely 
profitable one.” 

And what might hinder success, Frank?” 

^^Wind and water, my dear. Very, very 
heavy rains might cause a flood, and if the 
wind helped the water there is a possibility 
of the works being destroyed before comple- 
tion. To make amends for this, though, as 
Bateman said, a very extraordinary margin 
of probable profit would be allowed.” 

Frank further explained the nature of the 
work, the difficulties to be overcome, and all 
the etceteras with which Bateman had made 
him acquainted. It was late before the hus- 
band and wife laid their heads on their pillows ; 
and even then Frank did not sleep upon it.” 
His mind was too much occupied in calcu- 
lating the chances which Bateman’s proposal 
offered, and in trying to decide whether he 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 173 

should be justified in accepting it. But morn- 
ing came and found him still calculating and 
still undecided. 

Wijih night arrived Mr. Bateman; and then 
an answer must be given. 

^'Now, Johnson, what have you made up 
your mind to do?” asked the bricklayer. ‘‘I 
hope you’ve concluded to throw in your chance 
with mine once more.” 

^‘1 hardly know what to say, Mr. Bateman; 
but I’ll tell you what makes me hesitate. 
Bather more than half the capital with which 
I trade belongs to Mr. Philips. He lent me 
double that, or I never should have started for 
myself. At first I did well, and paid him back 
half; but latterly I have had opposition to 
- fight against, and barely cleared my expenses.” 

Ah ! I know something about that. There 
has been mean, ungenerous work, not pleasant 
to think or talk of. Yet never fear: truth 
and honesty will conquer at last; and mind 
if this very job we have been talking about 
doesn’t clear you.” 


15 * 


174 


IT isn't eight; oe, 


“ It seems a promising affair, and there is 
only one chance against it; but still there is 
a risk, and I must not run the hazard of 
losing Mr. Philips’s money in any thing like 
a speculation.” 

“Pay him off, then, and risk only your 
own.” 

Frank Johnson laughed outright. “That 
is much more easily said than done, Mr. Bate- 
man.” 

“ Sell off a portion of your stock, and trade 
only with your own money. Or borrow what 
you owe him of another person, and give a 
bill of sale as security. I was in a lawyer’s 
office to-day, and I heard him say he wanted 
to put a few hundreds out at interest, which 
are lying idle at the bank, but nobody seemed 
to be in want of money.” 

Frank hesitated, pondered, and knew not 
what to say. There was a brilliant prospect 
of profit, which he did not like to relinquish, 
— a chance of ruin, which he dreaded to en- 
counter. But, as Mr. Bateman was all in 


FEANK JOHNSONS EEASON. 


17.5 


favour of the scheme, and there was no per- 
son present to speak against it, Frank soon 
began to see only the bright side, and he 
finally consented not only to join the other in 
estimating for the work, but also to pay Mr. 
Philips by the means proposed. Frank had 
fancied that he looked and spoke coldly now; 
but, whether he was right or not in this idea, 
certain it is that he felt most anxious to cancel 
the debt he owed him. 

A very short time sufficed to settle Frank’s 
doubts as to whether his and Bateman’s joint 
estimates would be accepted or not. Sundry 
misgivings as to the wisdom of the step he 
had taken were half allayed by the idea that 
most likely Mr. Aldridge would be a com- 
petitor, and a successful one. But Mr. Al- 
dridge did not send in estimates, and Frank 
and Bateman took the work to do. 

Frank found no difficulty in borrowing the 
money he wanted, on the terms named by 
Bateman ; and he accordingly paid Mr. Philips, 
and became indebted for a somewhat larger 


176 IT isn't bight; or, 

sum to a person unknown, who acted through 
his lawyer. 

Mr. Philips took the money, and returned 
Frank his written acknowledgment, without 
any comment. But, when the business was 
concluded, he said, ‘‘1 always thought you 
a thoroughly straightforward man, Johnson, 
until this moment.” 

Perhaps Frank was never so near forgetting 
himself as when he heard these words. The 
blood mounted to his forehead, and he said, 
almost angrily, think, sir, it isn't right to 
tell me that, when I have paid you every far- 
thing of the money that you were kind enough 
to put in my hands, now near four years ago.” 

^Mt isn’t the money, Johnson. I own your 
honesty; but you might have trusted me. I 
think I have always shown a disposition to 
befriend you. Mind, I don't say this with a 
view to cause an unpleasant sense of obligation, 
but as a simple statement of facts; and yet I 
have reason to know that you are not paying 
me out of your business profits, but that you 


FKANK Johnson’s season. 177 

have borrowed money at a higher rate of inter- 
est, because, I suppose, you were tired of me as 
a creditor. Moreover, you have placed your 
very home and its comforts in jeopardy, in 
order to engage in what is at best a specu- 
lation, with a man of whom you know very 
little. Why did you not come to me, lay 
your affairs before me, and ask the advice of 
a man who is older than yourself, and who has 
put thousands in circulation where you have 
stirred pounds? I have felt hurt at your 
being so reserved of late, Frank Johnson, and 
I dare say you have noticed it; but, of course, 
after my conduct towards you, even you could 
not attribute my distant manner to our little 
money transaction.” 

Frank would have spoken, for the scales 
were falling from his eyes, but he felt afraid 
to tell Mr. Philips that he really had attri- 
buted his reserved manner to dissatisfaction 
because he himself had not answered his pa- 
tron’s expectations in making money rapidly 
enough. 

M 


178 


IT isn’t eight; or, 


You have chosen your own path, Johnson,'' 
continued Mr. Philips, waving his hand, as 
a sign that he wished not to be interrupted; 
^‘and I c^tn only say that I am very sorry 
for you. Had you come to me, as to a friend 
who had ever encouraged your confidence, 
you would have found me ready as ever to 
help you, both with advice and aid of a more 
substantial kind. I wish you may not have 
cause to regret the position in which you have 
placed yourself, and the speculation (I can but 
call it so) in which you are involved. The 
struggling workman has my sympathy; with 
the rash speculator I have nothing in common.” 

A quiet but stern good-day” from Mr. 
Philips ended the conference ; for Frank lacked 
courage to speak. He only bowed, and stam- 
mered out, Good-day, sir, and thank you for 
past favours. I may have done wrong, but I 
am grateful for all your kindness.” 

^^He was so stern,” said poor Frank, after- 
wards, to his wife, that for my life I couldn’t 
tell him what was on my mind. So he’ll not 


FEANK Johnson’s reason. 179 

know that it was because be was my first and 
best friend, that I couldn’t bear to speculate, 
as be says, with a halfpenny of bis money. 
And, after all, I haven’t understood him quite, 
I find ; though I read his character in some 
things. Still, I think a gentleman like Mr. 
Philips might have considered that a working- 
man like me would be afraid of presuming too 
much on the notice he had taken of me. How 
could /know that he would wish me to go and 
talk to him about my little business troubles ?” 

Mrs. Johnson sighed, for she saw that Frank 
was more than doubtful of the wisdom of the 
step he had taken. But it was too late now 
to draw back; and she would not discourage 
him with doleful forebodings. On the contrary, 
she used all the innocent arts of a loving wife 
to induce him at least to set out on his new 
undertaking with a good heart. But Frank 
could not sleep that night. Mr. Philips’s 
words, “You have placed your very home and 
its comforts in jeopardy,” seemed ever ringing 
in his ears, and, all through the still hours of 


180 


IT ISNT eight; oe, 


darkness, Frank's sorrowful imagination con- 
jured up pictures widely different from the 
bright scenes he hoped to realize in that dear 
home when he first began business. It was of 
no use to repent now. With the morning came 
Mr. Bateman, full of business projects; and 
Frank felt that he had no time for thought : he 
must at once begin to act. Yet his heart sank 
as he considered what he had pledged himself 
to; and he remarked to his fellow-contractor, 
doubt much whether I ought to have en- 
tered into an engagement of such magnitude, 
with my limited means.” 

^'Oh, you have what is even better than 
capital,” was the quick rejoinder. 

'^And what is that?” inquired Frank. 
Credit, my friend, — credit. You have a 
good name; that is to say, a name which is 
accounted good on the back of a bill, — or on 
either side, for that matter. And, you see,” 
he added, in a tone which he intended to be 
jocular, “we have the very best authority — 
Scripture authority — for making this asser- 


FRANK Johnson's reason. 181 

tion; for didn’t the wisest man the world ever 
saw say, good name is rather to be chosen 
than great riches’? eh, Mr. Johnson?” 

The speaker gave Frank a playful dig with 
his elbow as he quoted thus irreverently and 
unseasonably the words of Holy Writ; but, 
somehow, Frank did not appear to appreciate 
the intended jest; and his wife, who overheard 
it, told him afterwards that Bateman’s manner 
had filled her with mistrust. 

It was not a pleasant beginning, nor one 
calculated to remove his rising misgivings. 

A few words which passed between Mr. 
Aldridge and Harry Enfield wiU perhaps serve 
to show that Frank had more reason for his 
forebodings than he was himself aware of. 
Enfield was working pretty steadily in his 
old place, occasionally indulging his liking for 
drink, but steering clear of the excesses that 
used to render his home miserable, and always 
earning large wages. 

He had just received orders respecting some 

doors which he was making, and which were 
16 


182 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


wanted on the next day : so, to accomplish the 
job, he had agreed to work over- time. Mr. 
Aldridge was turning to leave the shop, when 
he said, By-the-by, Enfield, you told me Mr. 
Bryant had invested your bit of money for 
you. I hope you have good security? ” 

Pretty fair, sir, I think, — thank you.” 

Mr. Aldridge thought that Enfield would tell 
him all about it ; but, as Harry did not seem 
inclined to be communicative, his employer 
said, Is it in the hands of a Millfield person, 
may I ask?” 

^‘Well, yes, sir, it is. I don’t mind letting 
you know who has it, if you will say nothing 
about it. At present only Mr. Bryant, the 
lawyer, knows, besides myself. Mary is as 
ignorant as a child. She is so well contented 
with me now that she never troubles her head 
about money matters.” 

And you must still let her have cause to 
be, Harry; for Mary has been a good wife. 
She took you for better for worse, and ” 

“ She has had her share of worse, you think, 


FRANK JOHNSON S REASON. 


183 


Mr. Aldridge; and so do I. Very likely you'll 
hear me talked about as a model husband yet, 
instead of a drunken blackguard.” The man 
laughed carelessly enough; for even when 
moved by his better feelings he was too proud 
to let them be seen, or to show his true senti- 
ments. As to the money, Mr. Aldridge, you'll 
be a little astonished to hear that I’ve invested 
it in Frank Johnson's business.” 

Then you are a silly fellow for your pains. 
You will lose it, and deserve to do so.” 

^^Well, I don’t know that, sir. Frank will 
go to the dogs; and may-be you and I will both 
take credit to ourselves for having helped him 
on the way: — you, by business opposition; I, 
by lending him money 1" 

Again I tell you, you are a foolish fellow, 
Enfield. I know you don’t like Johnson. 
You’ve never got over that old grudge. But, 
if you think to ruin him by furnishing him 
with means to carry on his present work, you 
may accomplish your end, but you will be to 
some extent involved in his downfall. Don’t 


184 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


you know that he risks all ke has, and all you 
have lent him, by entering into this contract? 
I would have nothing to do with it, though 
strongly solicited to estimate. I can afford 
to venture a few hundreds, and the risk to 
me would be comparatively small; but it is 
a mad undertaking for Frank. One night 
might see him beggared.” 

^^He has given a bill of sale, Mr. Aldridge; 
and at this moment I have power over every 
stick he calls his own. Mr. Bryant thinks I 
am safe, at any rate.” 

There was a glitter in Harry Enfield’s eye, 
that told with what satisfaction he contem- 
plated his present position. 

‘^1 understand; I understand,” said Mr. Al- 
dridge, shaking his head reprovingly. “It 
will be well if, in your desire to pay off old 
scores, you don’t get taken in yourself.” 

“ Of course, sir, I trust to you to keep my 
secret. I do not wish Johnson to recognize 
me as his creditor, at present.” 

“You may rely upon that; but, mind, I 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 185 

don’t think you show a good spirit towards 
Frank.” 

Mr. Aldridge left the workshop, and Enfield 
threw down his plane for a moment to indulge 
in a hearty laugh. “I like that remark of 
our boss,” murmured he. ^Mf that isn’t ^ihe 
jpot calling the kettle black, I wonder what is ! 
Here he goes and takes work on terms that can’t 
pay him, on purpose to hinder Johnson from 
getting a living beside him; and yet Frank 
worked for him for years as well as any man 
in his place. And then he goes and puts on 
a grave face, and shakes his head, and says I 
don’t show a good spirit to Frank ! How, he 
may profit by what I have done; he can’t profit 
by Mr. Aldridge’s dealings. If people could 
but see how ridiculous they make themselves 
when they begin to preach one thing to a 
person who knows they act just in an opposite 
way themselves ! Practice before precept, say 
I, Mr. Aldridge.” And, with this aphorism 
on his lips, Enfield resumed his plane and his 
labours. 


16 » 


186 


IT isn't right; or, 


CHAPTEE IX. 

FIRST HOPES, AND A FIRST MISFORTUNE. 

X spite of all gloomy prophecies, the 
work which Frank and his partner 
had undertaken progressed favour- 
ably. Indeed, it was rapidly ap- 
proaching completion, and the two 
contractors were in high spirits. They had 
received half the sum to which they would be 
entitled when it was quite finished; bills had 
been punctually met, wages regularly paid, 
and Frank’s day-dreams had become bright 
and pleasant again. Mr. Aldridge began to 
doubt whether, after all, he had acted wisely 
in refusing to give an estimate, and Enfield 
to believe that Johnson’s worldly goods would 
be beyond his power to grasp. 



FRANK Johnson’s reason. 187 

As to Bateman, lie was exultant in the ex- 
treme. “ Now, Frank, my boy,” he observed, 
as he clapped his companion on the shoulder, 
^^you won’t pull a long face and hesitate so, 
when I come to propose a good thing to you 
again, will you? You’ll have a little faith in 
my power to see as far through a millstone 
as my neighbours. You’ll be wishing there 
was a chance of a few more jobs of the same 
sort in prospect.” This remark was made 
when the contractors were fingering the first 
moiety of the cash for the work. 

Frank looked pleasant enough as he pocketed 
his share, but said, ^‘You’re fond of proverbs, 
Bateman : so I’ll just remind you of one.” 

** I can guess; I can guess. You are going 
to tell me ^not to halloo before I’m out of the 
wood.' I must confess we are not out of the 
wood yet ; but we’re marching fast, and shall 
see our way clear very soon. Till then, I shall 
not say another word.” 

Another week’s work was added to that pre- 
viously done, and cautious Frank had almost 


188 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


lost his sense of uneasiness. It was hardly 
likely that in August there would be weather 
to cause a flood and injure the newly-con- 
structed sluice. The scene of the work was 
more than two miles from Millfield ; and some- 
times both Frank and Bateman remained on 
the spot for two or three days together, unless 
urgent business called them home. On Satur- 
day nights, however, they always returned early 
to Millfield. 

It was on a Saturday evening that the two 
contractors stood surveying the progress made. 

One more week, and all wiD. be safe,” said 
Frank. 

‘^Ay, to a certainty. If we had chosen 
the weather, we couldn’t have been better 
suited.” 

•“But it’s very close to-night,” said Frank, 
whose attention was called to the weather by 
his companion’s observation. “ In the middle 
of the day the heat was hardly bearable, and 
I felt glad I had not to walk home then ; but 
I believe it is hotter now.” 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 189 

It is more sultry. There isn’t a breath of 
air stirring. We shall have a thunder-storm, 
or it will be very odd.” 

The sky was assuming that leaden yet lurid 
hue which is a sign of the coming storm, and 
the birds flew to and fro in ominous fashion. 

^^Come, Johnson; let us be starting. We 
shall have enough to do to reach home before 
the rain begins,” said Bateman. 

Frank heard without heeding. He stood 
gazing at the work in which his all was in- 
vested, as though a species of fascination held 
him to the spot. 

His companion lost patience. Go I must : 
so, if you don’t mean to start, good-night to 
you.” 

This roused Frank from his revery, and the 
two walked from the place together. They 
were not half-way home when a few large 
drops made them look round to see if any 
shelter could be obtained. There were large 
trees enough; but a vivid flash of lightning 
showed them that these would afford no safe 


190 


IT isn’t EiaHT; OB, 


covering, and they hurried on to reach a hovel 
which stood in an adjoining field. Before 
they were beneath its roof, the rain fell in 
torrents; flash after flash of lightning dazzled 
their eyes, peal after peal of thunder sounded 
in their ears. The trees, of which every leaf 
had been motionless an hour before, were now 
rudely swayed to and fro by the wind, and 
boughs were rent from them as easily as a 
child snaps a tender green twig from the 
sprouting hawthorn. 

Once Frank’s main thought would have 
been, How uneasy Lizzy will be on my 
account 1” Now he could only ask himself the 
question, Will the work stand?” 

Bateman, too, was evidently anxious. Usu- 
ally a man of many words, he now stood 
silently and gloomily watching the strife of 
the elements, and especially the torrents of 
rain. Did you ever see such a rain, Frank?” 
he said, after a long silence. 

think I never did. It falls rather like a 
sheet of water than in drops.” 


It lan’t 



They hurried ou to reach a hovel in an adjoining fieid 



^, /. t „ . _ >,.i. . -'H .T 

j. , wifiF 

■ ^ ■ ■ :. ' V ■ ■' t- 

>•-■ V .. :V ,^,-: ■ , . •' • *, '■* 

f i -^v ■,- 

'•••■' • ■ ■ V.vw^.gv' ; 

- ■ ‘j '^T < 

■ • ■: 

■/-,? V 






FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 191 

'^And how it will pour down the hill-sides, 
and rush and roar, you know where /" 

Frank did indeed know. There was no 
need to repeat their forebodings to each other. 
These men were well aware that the mind 
of each was at that moment a reflection of 
the other’s. 

The rain did not cease soon, but lasted for 
hours. There had been weeks of dry weather, 
and now it appeared as though the clouds had 
gathered all their strength to form one great 
torrent. It was late before the men could 
leave their humble shelter and seek the home- 
ward path. When they did leave it, they 
hesitated whether to turn towards Millfield, 
or to retrace their steps to Hebworth Lock, 
the scene of their recent labours. 

Which way is it to be, Johnson?” 

^'If I had no wife at home, I should say 
to Hebworth ; but she will be so uneasy ” 

^‘And if any thing has gone wrong, we can 
hope to do nothing to-night; but, then, there 
is the suspense.” 


192 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


'^Well; if any thing has happened to the 
work, we shall have a hopeful season until 
we are sure of the worst.” 

But if you can help feeling anxious, it is 
more than I can ; and we may anticipate evil 
without occasion.” 

I cannot help being anxious,” was Frank’s 
quiet answer; ^^but I must bear my own sus- 
pense about the sluice, to relieve my wife’s 
uneasiness respecting me.” 

Suiting the action to the word, Frank 
turned his back upon the road to Hebworth, 
and walked rapidly towards his home. His 
companion hesitated a moment, and then fol- 
lowed him. But so absorbed were both the 
men in anxious thoughts, that they did not 
exchange another word until they bade each 
other good-night when the moment came for 
them to separate. 

As Frank neared his home, he saw his wife 
on the door-step. ‘‘ Oh, Frank,” said she, I am 
glad you are here safe. I thought you would 
be on the road when the storm came on.” 


FRANK Johnson's reason. 193 

So I was, and Bateman too ; but we took 
shelter in a little hovel that was near, so we 
suffered no great inconvenience, except that 
we had to stay there for a long time, watching 
the lightning and rain, and listening to the 
thunder.” 

“Eain! Yes, indeed: I never saw such a 
rain. The water ran down the streets here 
like a little river, and some low-lying houses 
have the ground-floors flooded. I heard a 
man say, as he passed by, that all the poor 
women in Slater s Buildings have their Satur- 
day’s work to do over again, and that there 
was nothing to be seen and heard but the 
wringing of mops and clatter of pails. How- 
ever, it is a mercy that no very serious harm 
is done. All can be repaired and made com- 
fortable by a few hours’ work.” 

His wife went on talking thus as she busied 

herself in getting her husband’s tea ready; 

but Frank made no answer, and when she 

turned to look at him she saw by his face 

that his thoughts were far away.* So she 
N ir 


194 


IT isn’t eight; or, 


completed her preparations in silence, and, 
when all was ready, touched his shoulder to 
call his attention to the meal. 

Frank drew his chair to the table, and was 
then fain to notice his little three-year-old 
girl, who had been much dissatisfied at re- 
ceiving no petting from him. Frank was 
always loving and gentle to his children, and 
his presence was ever an encouragement to 
smiles and words of kindness. So now, to 
make amends for not having kissed little 
Jenny when he came in, he did it half a dozen 
times over, and pressed his lips to each little 
fat round cheek, then to the forehead and 
eyes. 

'' But how is it father’s little girl is not in 
bed yet?” 

“The storm was so terrible, Frank,” said 
Mrs. Johnson, “that I hardly liked to get 
the children to bed while it lasted. Poor 
little Jenny was frightened when she saw the 
lightning, and clung to me. She is too little 
to understand who it is that ^sendeth forth 


FEANK JOHNSON’S EEASON. 195 

lightnings with the rain, bringing the winds 
out of His treasures.’ And really, Frank, 
the storm has been awful to look upon, even 
to us, who can understand at whose command 
the thunder is heard and the rain falls.” 

So I suppose you gathered your children 
round you and waited till the storm was 
over.” 

^^Yes, I had my children round me,” she 
said. 

But, even while her presence made the 
young creatures feel safe, the mother was up- 
lifting her heart to God to preserve their 
father from the violence of the storm. 

Weary and anxious as Frank Johnson felt 
when he crossed his threshold, he was in some 
measure beguiled into cheerfulness by the 
thoughtful kindnesses of his wife and the evi- 
dent delight with which the juvenile members 
of the family hailed his coming home. Nay, 
for a little time he almost forgot that the 
storm just past might be in one sense the 
turning-point of his fortunes. 


196 


IT isn’t eight; or, 




Frank Johnson did not pay his men on 
Saturday nights. As a working-man he had 
felt how much more advantageous it would 
be to himself, and convenient for his wife, if, 
instead of waiting for his wages until six or 
seven o’clock at night, he could have them a 
day sooner. And when he commenced busi- 
ness for himself, she had suggested that he 
should pay his men on the Thursday evening. 

“’Twill make no difference, Frank,” she 
urged, “if you give the men their earnings 
for the week before.” 

“But why Thursday?” 

“Because, you know, our best market is on 
Friday; and if the men had their wages al- 
ways on Thursday night they could go to 
market, or, rather, their wives could, and buy 
at first hand. Instead of that, if they wait 
till Saturday they must purchase of the 
hucksters, who have themselves bought in the 
Friday’s market. Then their butter will cost 
them more, to say nothing of other things. 
And then, you know, Frank, there is always 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 197 

extra household work to do on Saturday ; and 
it is much more convenient for a woman to he 
able to stay in-doors, instead of leaving off 
to do her marketing. Perhaps she has to do 
it late on Saturday evening, and to leave her 
children in bed, or, at any rate, alone in the 
house. It has made my heart ache, sometimes, 
to see tired women, with little babies in their 
arms, going to market, when they ought to 
he going to bed.” 

This was the wife’s plea when her husband 
first became a master- workman ; and it was 
not urged in vain. Frank’s men had their 
wages on Thursday evening, and found their 
own and their wives’ domestic comforts greatly 
increased thereby. 

Of course, in consequence of this arrange- 
ment, Frank did not expect to see any of his 
men on that Saturday evening after the storm ; 
and, having given orders for the coming week, 
he was surprised when his wife came and 
told him that George Baker wished to speak 

to him. An uneasy sensation came over 
17 * 


198 IT isn't right; or, 

Frank; for George Baker had been working 
at HebwortK Lock that afternoon, and bis 
employer well remembered that the man said 
he should not return to Millfield till late, as 
he was going to take tea with an old neigh- 
bour who now lived at Heb worth. 

Frank rose from his seat, went to the door, 
and closed it behind him. *‘Well, George, 
what news have you brought me from Heb- 
worth? How have the works stood?” 

^‘Why, sir, you know what a rain it was 
here.” 

was only half-way home; but I can 
guess, George.” 

As well as I can judge, sir, it was nothing 
here to what we had it at Hebworth. It was 
just as though the water came down in a 
piece; and the sound of the flood rushing 
down, you know where, sir, was like thunder.” 

^‘But the sluice, the new works, George, 
— how have they stood? I can tell that you 
have some bad news, and you don’t like to 
say it; but it is worse to expect it than even 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 199 

to know. Out with it, man, in as few words 
as you can.” 

Thus exhorted, George said, Well, the new 
works are clean swept away; and I never was 
so sorry to tell any thing in all my life.” 

Frank had anticipated bad news, but not 
such intelligence as this; and no wonder that 
the shock was great. He reeled back against 
the door as though he had received a blow, 
and was utterly incapable of speaking for 
some moments. Poor George Baker, as stal- 
wart a fellow as you could meet in a long 
day’s march, had a heart as tender as a 
woman’s; and he almost felt as though it 
were his doings, when he saw the effect of 
the news on his employer. I almost wish,” 
he began, ^Hhat I’d never come to tell you; 
but I thought you ought to know; but I am 
as sorry as though it had happened to myself. 
I doubt it’ll be a great loss to you.” 

^^It will, — ^it will indeed, George. But it 
was quite right in you to let me know. You’re 
a good fellow, and have always done your 


200 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


best for my benefit, and I know that you’re 
sorry to bring me bad news,” was Frank’s 
reply. 

am that, sir. Is there aught I can do 
for you now?” 

Nothing, thank you, George. We might 
have tried to mend a little damage; but as it 
is ” 

Frank stopped again, and the man returned, 
^^Of course, sir: I know what you mean. I 
wish I could do any thing to set things right. 
But I couldn’t help feeling in my own mind 
to-night, when I looked at the place I was 
working at a few hours since, that when God 
chooses to put out His strength, what poor, 
helpless good-for-nothings us chaps are, though 
we think we can do something at other times.” 

*^True, George. I feel that, I assure you. 
It’s a heavy blow to me; but I must try to 
submit, and endeavour to make amends some- 
how.” 

Frank went in to his house again with a 
saddened heart; for had he not to break the 


FEANZ Johnson’s season. 201 

news to his good wife? The sight of his 
children was become a tacit reproach, instead 
of a comfort. For, again, had he not placed 
that home in jeopardy, and were not the very 
beds on which they were sleeping pledged as 
a security for the borrowed money? 


202 


IT isn’t eight; ok, 


CHAPTER X. 



A COMMITTEE OF WAYS AND MEANS. — AUNTY S 
BASKET AEEIVES. 

IS? 

ITRANK JOHNSON communicated 
the bad news, first to his wife, and then 
to Bateman. The former, though 
deeply grieved, bore it like a Chris- 
tian woman, and strove to support 
her husband, whose bitter self-reproach was 
worse than even the trouble itself. As to 
Bateman, he was like most sanguine persons, 
— unreasonably buoyed up at one time, and as 
unreasonably cast down when trouble came. 
Frank found he had to provide energy both 
for his partner and himself. 

However, the men were bound by the con- 
tract they had accepted. The hope of large 
profits, which had tempted them to undertake 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 203 

it, had proved to be a vain one; but, though 
there was no chance of avoiding a heavy loss, 
the work must be recommenced, and com- 
pleted, too, before they were freed from the 
bond they had entered into. ^‘It was not 
utter ruin yet,” said Frank, and made another 
start. 

But there were new disadvantages to con- 
tend against. A brief season of mild weather 
allowed the men to push on their operations; 
though nothing could make them feel cheerful, 
bearing about with them, as they did, the 
knowledge that, so far from there being a 
chance of any thing to repay their labour, it 
was spent for nothing, — ay, worse than no- 
thing. Towards the end of September came 
more heavy rains and high winds. First, the 
progress of the works was retarded; then they 
received considerable injury, again, through 
a heavy gale. Then money became very 
scarce. Frank’s whole available capital was 
sunk in this one undertaking, and he soon 
discovered that Bateman’s means were even 


204 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


more limited than his own. One day the 
latter came to Frank and asked him to en- 
dorse a note for one hundred dollars. 

Frank demurred a little. I don’t see how 
I can do it,” he said. “It will fall due just 
before New Year’s day; and I know I shall 
have no means of meeting it if you should 
fail in doing so.” 

“But I shall not fail, Mr. Johnson; for I 
have money to come in at that time from 
other sources, though I have none now. And 
it just comes to this: — I must either raise 
this sum, or I may shut up shop.” 

More conversation passed. Bateman used 
plausible arguments, and the end of it was 
that Frank endorsed the note. 

He rued this before a week had passed. 
“I’m afraid,” he said to Mrs. Johnson, “that 
Bateman is not quite straightforward.” 

“What makes you think so? You know 
he cannot be blamed for the misfortunes that 
have happened to the works.” 

“No; but I’ve found out that he would 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 205 

never have asked me to join in the work at 
all, if he could have persuaded Mr. Aldridge 
to do it. He wanted a man with more money 
than I had ; and he only came to me after he 
had vainly tried Mr. Aldridge." 

^^Are you quite sure of this, Frank?" 

Dick Halliday told me, and he had it from 
Mr. Aldridge himself. Dick is very sorry 
for me, I can see; but I can see also that he 
thinks I have acted very foolishly in having 
any thing to do with the matter. I might 
have known if Mr. Aldridge drew back that 
there was no good to be done; for, though he 
is so quiet, he is a keen man of business, and 
likes to make money." 

You couldn’t know that he had declined, 
though." She waited a moment, and then 
said, ^^Have you got money, to pay the half- 
year’s interest of the borrowed sum?" 

^^Yes: I have taken care of that." 

This was a relief to the good woman; for 
the thought of the interest, due three days 

hence, had weighed heavily upon her, and she 
18 


206 IT isn’t eight; oe, 

had seen sad visions of a desolated home and 
hungry children, which might become real. 
They were now more likely to prove true 
than the bright pictures that Frank used to 
draw. 

But things were not yet at the worst. 
Money became scarcer still ; for. no more could 
be had on account of the works at Hebworth 
Lock until they were entirely completed, and 
the second disaster which occurred there re- 
duced Frank almost to despair. It was not 
so serious as the former one; but still it was 
sufficiently so to entail another considerable 
addition to the too great outlay already made. 
Mrs. Johnson did what she could to cheer her 
husband, but at the same time she had to 
contend against her own sad forebodings ; and 
her attempts wejp not very successful. As 
to Mr. Bateman, he lost all courage, and said 
it was almost useless to struggle against such 
ill-luck as they had experienced. 

It wanted only a few days to the New Year, 
the time at which he had said he should 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 207 

‘^have money from various sources,” when 
Bateman disappeared from Millfield altogether. 
His flight was managed so dexterously — ^his 
wife and children had gone before him, under 
pretence of paying a visit to her mother— 
that pursuit was vain. Then poor Frank saw 
the very last fragment of his bubble fortune 
disappear; and he found out that his late 
fellow-contractor was not only deficient in 
moral courage, hut in principle also. Bate- 
man was deeply in debt; and he had taken 
care to leave nothing behind him to satisfy 
his creditors even in part. Frank Johnson 
discovered that he was actually unable to 
meet his engagements when he came to Mill- 
field, and that he had made a market of 
Frank's good name in order to obtain credit. 

This new blow almost prostrated both 
Frank and his wife. Her health had sufiered 
much through the constant pressure of men- 
tal anxiety, and she was now in an unusually 
delicate state. It grieved Frank to see how 
incessantly she laboured: and yet he could 


208 


IT isn't eight; oe, 


not but love and honour his good wife all the 
more for her patience and the uncomplaining 
manner in which she endured new privations 
and strove to lighten his cares. 

There was one thing which Frank did not 
at first remember when he heard of Bate- 
man’s flight; and that was the bill for one hun- 
dred dollars which he had been induced to 
endorse. He turned pale at the very thought 
of it, and he mentioned his dread to his wife. 

Surely, Frank, he will have paid in money 
at the bank to meet that. He could not be 
so cruel as to leave this additional burden for 
you.” 

must ascertain whether he has or not; 
but I hardly dare hope that he has been more 
considerate for me than for others. If a man 
lacks honesty and principle with regard to 
one person, it is scarcely likely that he will 
show them towards another.” 

Frank made inquiry about the bill, and 
found, as he expected, that Bateman had not 
left a farthing towards meeting it. Then, 


FEANK Johnson’s reason. 209 

indeed, lie was utterly prostrated. ^^It isn’t 
right,” he exclaimed, ^Hhat all should fall 
upon me.” 

^^Does it, Frank?” asked his wife. ^^Have 
you a single trouble which is not mine?” 

^^No: I almost wish I could bear all by 
myself; but we are united alike in joy and 
sorrow, — God help us!” 

He laid his head on his hands to hide his 
deep emotion ; for Frank was in grievous 
trouble. However, desponding would do no 
good. He must try to face his new difficul- 
ties; and, in the first place, by straining 
every nerve, he managed to meet the note 
and pay his men their full wages. On Christ- 
mas eve he had but a few pence left, and no 
festal preparations had been made for the 
morrow. His children, all unconscious of 
their father’s business difficulties or the utter 
exhaustion of his purse, were talking of past 
Christmas times, and anticipating similar 
good cheer and innocent enjoyments on the 

morrow. It brought tears into the mother’s 
0 18 * 


210 


IT isn’t eight; or, 


eyes when she heard the youngsters talking, 
as they lay it bed, of its near approach; and 
she said, ^‘Oh, Frank, it is hard! We shall 
have a dull Christmas this year. It isn’t that 
I care for myself; but it is the poor children 
who reckon so on it. For my own part, I 
could be contented with a crust of bread and 
a draught of water, if I could but see a pros- 
pect of better days.” 

^‘And I could bear this, and should be 
strong enough to comfort you, if it were not 
that I am always possessed by the thought 
that I have brought these dark days upon us 
by my own rashness.” 

^'You did it for the best, Frank. Don’t 
reproach yourself, I beseech you. After all, 
I feel that while you are well and strong we 
are richer than many of our neighbours. 
And now let us see what we can contrive for 
the children to-morrow.” 

The consultation was not a cheerful one; 
for when Frank’s pockets were turned out, 
they were found to contain less than a shil- 


FKANK JOHNSONS REASON. 


211 


ling. “We shall be obliged to get a few 
things on credit/' he said. “We never have 
run into debt for household necessaries, and 
I don’t owe a penny except what I have con- 
tracted in the way of business debts. How- 
ever, no one in Millfield will refuse to trust 
us.” 

“I know that,” said his wife: “so I must 
get on my bonnet and shawl.” But still she 
lingered, and at length added, “Oh, Frank, 
I should be a bad hand at trying to deceive 
a shopkeeper. I shall just feel as if I were 
going under false pretences. I wonder how 
those people do who run up long scores which 
they never expect to pay!” 

Mrs. Johnson’s tardiness rendered her shop- 
ping excursion unnecessary; for, while the 
words were on her lips, a rap at the door an- 
nounced a visitor. Hay, there were two, — 
sturdy lads, both of them, and sons of the 
Millfield carrier, — who stood outside, panting 
beneath the weight of a huge hamper which 
they had just placed upon the ground. 


212 IT isn't eight; or, 

Here's a basket from Thornbolm, Mrs. John- 
son. Father brought it in the cart, and he's 
only just got home, for the snow made the 
roads so bad. The carriage is paid, ma'am; 
but, my word, the basket just is a weight.' 

Mrs. Johnson rightly interpreted this last 
remark into a hint that the young porters 
deemed themselves entitled to a gift for their 
trouble in conveying the said basket to its 
destination. She accordingly took some pen- 
nies from her husband’s scanty store and be- 
stowed a part on each of the lads. 

Thank you, Mrs. Johnson; thank you," 
they cried; and away they ran in high glee. 
She was fain to call her husband to carry in 
the hamper, as her strength was by no means 
sufficient. And how the contents of it glad- 
dened the hearts of the father and mother! 
They both knew whence it came, for she had 
a sister, married to a small farmer; and 
winter, in the farm-house, is the season of 
good cheer. To say nothing of poultry, then 
fat and ready for market, it is the pig-killing 


FRANK JOHNSON S REASON. 


213 


season, and flitches and hams are undergoing 
the curing process. 

Now, Mrs. Johnson’s sister always sent a 
big hamper full of what she called — and we 
call — ‘‘pig cheer” to Millfield, for her kinsfolk 
there ; and it is easy to imagine how delighted 
the little Johnsons always were when “aunt’s 
hamper” arrived. The basket did not generally 
come before Christmas; but it happened this 
particular winter that sundry porkers, having 
thriven more than common, were, in conse- 
quence of their fatness, condemned to a pre- 
mature death. Thanks to this circumstance, 
poor Elizabeth’s anxiety with regard to the 
Christmas dinner was all dispelled. “I dare 
not let the things remain packed until the 
morning,” she said; “and yet you know how 
the children always love to see the contents 
of ^aunt's basket' turned out. What must 
I do?” 

Frank smiled. “I know what you mean,” 
he said. “You might as well have told me 
that, as they are not asleep, you would like 


214 


IT ISNT bight; OBj 


to gladden them with a peep at the good 
things which neither you nor I expected to 
be able to show them; though they, with 
happy, childish faith, never doubted that this 
Christmas would be like all those that had 
gone before.” 

^^Yes; I should like them to come, Frank: 
they are not asleep yet, I know. The carrier’s 
boys, when they brought this load, took a great 
one away with them, — though they knew it 
not.” 

The poor mother did not consider that the 
children had not been sensible of the load; 
and, to please her, Frank shouted to them. 
Who will come down and see aunty’s basket 
unpacked?” 

There needed no second summons; for, at 
those two words, a scrtobling and scuffling 
were heard, a bumping down on the floor over- 
head, and then a pattering of feet on the 
stairs. All these sounds were followed by the 
trooping in of five youngsters varying in size, 
little Jenny being still in bed fast asleep. And, 


frank: Johnson’s reason. 215 

as she was too young to be supposed to know 
much about hampers, she was allowed to re- 
main there. 

Aunty’s basket had always exhibited her 
skill in packing, in a marvellous manner. It 
had, year by year, excited the wonder of the 
little Johnsons as to how its multifarious con- 
tents were ever deposited within its wicker 
sides. But on this occasion not only was the 
basket itself ever so much bigger than any 
that had come during previous winters, but 
it was more tightly packed than any before. 

The children shouted with delight — as well 
they might — as each fresh dainty was handed 
out. There were piles of mince-pies, long coils 
of sausages, and a prodigious pie. Then there 
were a couple of fowls, and a goose, — such 
a beauty! There were sundry big apples, — 
'^Yorkshire greens,” — whose appearance ex- 
cited no longing to try their quality, in the 
childish on-lookers. They were undoubtedly 
for apple-sauce to eat with the goose. And 
there were others of a different hue, some rich 


216 


IT isn’t right. 


and red and satin-coated (‘^Painted Ladies^ 
aunty called them), and some of a yellow hue 
and with a roughish skin, which the children 
recognized as Golden Eussets,” and were fain 
to try their quality then and there, only their 
mother thought it would be advisable to wait 
till morning. Moreover, there was a Christ- 
mas loaf, — a family spice loaf, — suggesting that 
it was intended for people to ^^cut and come 
again.” And last of all was a queer round 
bundle, enveloped in a brownish linen covering, 
the appearance of which puzzled the five pairs 
of juvenile eyes; but the mother exclaimed, 
at once, How kind Jane is ! She thinks of 
every thing. She has actually sent a great 
plum-pudding, tied up in a bag and half 
cooked!” 

There was a shout of laughter at these 
words; for the children thought it so droll of 
their aunt to send a pudding, when their own 
mother knew so well how to make one herself. 

But this thoughtful aunty knew a little of 
the state of things in her sister’s home at 


FKANK Johnson’s reason. 217 

Millfield, — though she had no idea how sad 
they were at that moment. The farmer’s wife 
had not very large means, for her husband’s 
farm was not an extensive one, and their chil- 
dren were many. But she had a large heart ; 
and, as she packed each of the good things into 
the hamper, she comforted herself with the 
idea, shall never miss it; and I know we 
shall be none the poorer for it at the year’s 
end; while it will do Elizabeth a little good 
by saving her something this Christmas-time.” 
She little guessed that it saved her sister a 
heavy heart-ache, and brought much gladness 
into her home that Christmas eve. 

After the children had seen all the contents 
of the hamper taken out, they went off to bed 
again, to rejoice over their aunt’s kindness and 
dream of coming festivity on the morrow. 

'^How good your sister is!” said Frank. 

^^Ay, Frank, and how good God is! This 
timely supply is from His bounteous hand, 
through whatever earthly one it may reach us.” 

With truly thankful hearts the father and 

19 


218 


IT isn't right; or, 


mother, relieved of one pressing care, blessed 
the Giver of all good for his mercy, and strove 
to think that, as he had assisted them in one 
season of difficulty, so would he again help and 
enable them to conquer the still greater trials 
which remained to be overcome. 

And on the morrow, in the house of wor- 
ship, they acknowledged, with humble joy and 
adoration, the inestimable gift which, many 
hundred years ago, was bestowed upon men, to 
provide for them the means of grace and the 
hope of glory." It was a happy thought for 
them that, whatever else might be taken away, 
they could still claim their share in this pre- 
cious boon, and that neither death, nor life, 
nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor 
things present, nor things to come, nor height, 
nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able 
to separate us from the love of God which is 
in Christ Jesus our Lord.” 


FEANK Johnson’s season. 


219 


CHAPTEE XI. 

UNWELCOME VISITORS — FRANK FINDS OUT TO 
WHOM THE FURNITURE BELONGS. 



^DAY of quiet rest passed all too 
soon for Frank Johnson, and the 
morrow found him immersed in all 
the anxieties which preceded it. 
He started for Hebworth betimes 


in the morning, hardly knowing what course 
to take, but resolved, at any rate, to see the 
gentlemen with whom he had contracted for 
the performance of the work, and to tell 
them of Bateman’s flight and his own con- 
sequent troubles. 

“ If they have a bit of reason in them,” he 
said, “they must see that I have not been to 
blame, and that it isn’t right I should be 
ruined because the very elements have fought 


220 


IT isn’t bight; or, 


against tlie success of my undertaking ; and then 
the dishonesty of Bateman has left me with the 
whole responsibility resting on my shoulders. 
Unless they will advance me some more money, 
I cannot complete the work.” 

With this resolution, Frank Johnson walked 
to Heb worth; but he was not successful in 
meeting with either of the gentlemen he wished 
to see. During his absence a new trial fell 
upon his wife, and proved the one thing want- 
ing to complete his ruin. 

She had just washed her children and sent 
them off to school, after dinner, and was cross- 
ing her little yard to bring in some coal, — 
when two men passed before her, and entered 
the house without the ceremony of knocking. 
She was at first afraid to follow; but, seeing 
that they were respectably dressed, she sup- 
posed they had come on business connected 
with the work at Hebworth, and accordingly 
she entered, and courteously asked if they 
wished to see her husband. 

^'It doesn’t matter at present,” was the 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 221 


answer of one of the men. ^'When lie comes 
home will be soon enough. I dare say he’ll be 
in no great hurry to see us; for we a’n’t often 
very welcome visitors anywhere : are we, Bob ?” 

The individual thus addressed responded by 
a broad grin; and then, perceiving the look 
of distress and alarm on Mrs. Johnson’s face, 
he composed his own into its former stolidity, 
while his companion resumed, We’re very 
sorry, ma’am, very sorry indeed, to trouble 
you; but we’re obliged to do our duty, how- 
ever unpleasant it may be; and of course you’ll 
not hinder us in any way.” 

^^Duty?” repeated Mrs. Johnson. don’t 
understand you. What is it you have to do? 
My husband will be at home this afternoon, 
and ” 

‘‘Yes, ma’am, to be sure: all right. And 
we shall take the liberty to wait till he does 
come. Don’t be alarmed : we sha’n’t hurt or 
inconvenience you in any way.” 

A few words sufficed to explain the state of 
affairs. The men were sheriff’s officers. 


222 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


For a little time poor Elizabeth was too 
much overcome to make any further inquiry; 
but atj length she was enabled to ascertain by 
whom these unwelcome visitors were sent. 

You will tell me that, now?” she whispered; 
for more she could not do. 

^^Oh, certainly, ma’am: you’ve a right to 
know all about it. Mr. Bryant, the solicitor, 
gave us our authority ; and it’s in consequence 
of some bill of sale, or something of the sort, 
your husband gave as security for borrowed 
money.” 

“ But the interest was paid to the very day : 
I know that.” 

I dare say, ma’am : no doubt you’re quite 
right in that little matter. But, you see, the 
principal comes to a good bit more than the 
interest ; and what with Mr. Bateman making 
such a clean sweep of it, and everybody 
knowing that your husband had got such a 
heavy handful along with those works at Heb- 
worth, it began to make the gentleman the 
money belonged to, afraid that he might be a 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 


223 


loser in the long run. So he thought he’d 
make hay while the sun was shining.” 

Oddly as the man thought fit to express his 
meaning, the poor wife had no difficulty in 
understanding it now. It meant just this: — 
that the chair on which she was sitting, the 
table at which her children had just returned 
thanks for their meals, and the beds on which 
they were accustomed to rest, could be called 
their own no longer, and that, in a few days 
at the most, a bare shelter only would remain 
to them. Yet, in the midst of this overwhelm- 
ing trouble, she felt that the worst would 
only come when her husband, all unsuspicious 
of this new blow, returned from Hebworth, 
and her little ones from school should enter 
and find these strange and unwelcome guests 
at the fireside. 

When Frank did arrive, he was almost 
frantic; for this he never anticipated. He 
rushed off, though faint and tired with his 
long and fruitless walk, to Mr. Bryant’s office, 
and asked to see him. He was at once ushered 


224 


IT isn’t right* or, 


into the lawyer’s presence, and said, ruefully, 
^^You know what I’m come about, sir, of 
course.” 

^^Yes, Johnson: I conclude there can be no 
mistake as to your errand. Very sorry for 
you, I’m sure; but what can we do?” 

“Can’t you give me a little time, sir?” 

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. “If it 
depended on me, I should be most happy to do 
it; but you are aware I am only acting for 
another person. In a place like this, a man’s 
affairs are pretty well known. My client can- 
not afford to lose his money; and he thinks 
that if he waits much longer you may not 
have the power to repay it. Then the flight 
of Mr. Bateman has, I am sorry to say, done 
you harm,” 

“Surely, sir,” said Frank, “I am not ac- 
countable for another man’s want of principle. 
Bateman and I are two separate individuals; 
and I am sorry to say I am the greatest suf- 
ferer by his dishonesty. It has involved me 
in various kinds of trouble. But it isn’t right. 


FEANK Johnson’s season. 225 

because one man is a rogue, to blame the other 
who suffers by his knavery.” 

Well, no; but, then, your being so closely 
connected in business matters with Bateman, 
and especially your joining him in what must 
be called a rash speculation rather than a 
regular business undertaking, has done you 
much harm.” 

Frank’s face, pale enough when he entered, 
was flushed in a moment. Amid all his trials, 
it was harder for him to think that his honest 
name should suffer than for him to bear the 
rest. But he could not quarrel with that 
cool, immovable-looking lawyer, who plainly 
regarded Frank’s ruinous position as in the 
ordinary way of business, — an incident that 
was happening to somebody or other every 
day, and, therefore, not worth making a fuss 
about. So, when Frank, choking the indig- 
nant words that rose to his lips, merely said, 
^‘Then you can do nothing to stop these pro- 
ceedings, sir?” he replied, regret to say 
that I cannot.” 

p 


226 IT isn’t eight; or, 

Then Mr. Bryant resumed his pen and 
turned towards his papers, as if intimating 
that he should feel obliged to Frank to take 
his departure as soon as possible. 

Frank stepped towards the door, but with 
his hand on the lock he bethought himself of 
a last chance. 

“ I beg your pardon for intruding on your 
time, Mr. Bryant,” he said, “but will you 
tell me the name of the gentleman to whom 
the money belongs? Then I would see him 
and tell him just how I am situated, and ask 
him to give me a little time.” 

“I don’t think it would be of any use: 
indeed, I feel sure of it. Your creditor is 
not a gentleman. He is a man in your own 
station, and cannot afford to lose his little 
property, or even to risk its final loss.” 

The thought of wife and children urged 
Frank, when for his own sake he would not 
have uttered another word, and he said, once 
more, “Will you please to tell me my creditor’s 
name?” 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 227 

Half annoyed, half amused, at his visitor’s 
persistency, Mr. Bryant replied, ^‘Well, if 
you must know, Johnson, your creditor is a 
former fellow-workman of yours, — Harry En- 
field. The money came by his wife. Good- 
evening.” 

“ Good-evening, sir, thank you,” said Frank, 
mechanically, not thinking of his words, as 
he passed out of the lawyer’s office into the 
frosty air. With the knowledge just com- 
municated, his last hope fled. There would 
be no favour from Harry Enfield. He had 
hardly courage to enter the home so soon to 
be desolated; and he wandered up and down 
until his wife, who was anxiously awaiting 
him, caught a glimpse of him as she looked 
out in the gathering twilight, and went to 
meet him. One glance at his face told that 
his errand had met with no success, and the 
few words, ‘‘It was Harry Enfield’s money 
that Mr. Bryant lent me,” acquainted her 
with all they had to fear. 

As the harassed couple lay on their pillows 


228 


IT isn’t eight; or, 


that night, with the miserable certainty that 
the next would find them without a bed to lie 
upon, she begged her husband to tell Harry 
Enfield that he had preserved the life of his 
boy years before. ^'For the sake of his own 
child, Frank, he will have pity on us and our 
children, and not deprive us of every hope 
of retrieving matters, and of every present 
comfort.” 

But Frank was for once deaf to his wife’s 
pleadings. “No,” he answered: “if I would 
not tell him before, still less will I do it now. 
He would say that I had trumped up this 
tale on purpose to turn him from his purpose. 
I know the man better than you do.” 

“But Mr. Philips could tell him the same.” 

“He likes Mr. Philips no better than me, 
and it is possible he would disbelieve him too. 
But, whether or no, I will not call on Mr. 
Philips to confirm my story; for I shall not 
tell it. Some time Harry Enfield will be 
sorry for this day’s work; and even now I 
shouldn’t wish to change places with him. 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 229 

However, we must bear our troubles as best 
we may. Besides, now I think of it, Mr. 
Philips is from home.” 

Mrs. Johnson was cogitating in her own 
mind whether there would be any harm in 
her telling the secret so long and faithfully 
kept, — when, as though Frank knew what she 
was thinking of, he said, “Elizabeth, I beg 
you will not say one word on the subject of 
my saving little Harry and his sisters from the 
fire. If you do, I shall feel deeply hurt, that 
now, when every thing is dark around me, my 
wife neglects or disobeys my expressed wish.” 

What could she do but promise that Frank’s 
wish should be respected at any cost to herself? 
Then her husband was satisfied. It was some 
small consolation for him to know that Mr. 
Philips and his family were from home. 

“I feel,” he said, “as though I couldn’t 
bear to have him looking on at this affair. 
I know it’s a bit of the old pride that makes 
me have this feeling, and that it isn’t exactly 

right to cherish it; but I’m glad, for all that.” 
20 


230 IT isn't eight; oe, 

Mr. Philips was absent from Sunny Lee. 
His eldest daughter having shown symptoms 
of consumption, the physicians had recom- 
mended a warmer climate. The whole family 
had gone, leaving only a couple of servants 
at Sunny Lee, to keep the house in order. 

It is not difficult to imagine the state to 
which Frank Johnson’s home was soon re- 
duced; and worse than even the sight of it 
was the knowledge that its master was still 
considerably in debt. Were he even able to 
replace in some measure the furniture taken 
away, another creditor might seize it on the 
morrow. There were friends and kinsfolk 
who acted a kindly part and took the chil- 
dren among them. There were a few good 
debts due to Frank, which would pay off a 
portion of his liabilities, but not all; and at 
last, urged by his own friends, and by the 
lawyer — not Mr. Bryant — to whom he went 
for advice, Frank resolved to take the benefit 
of the Bankrupt Act. To him it was a mise- 
rable alternative; but there was no other 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 231 

chance. '^You say I must go through the 
Court; sir?” he remarked, after Mr. Marfleet 
had given his opinion. 

^^Undoubtedly it is the best thing for your- 
self, as well as for your remaining creditors. 
If you do, they will most likely complete 
those unfortunate works at Hebworth as soon 
as the weather permits, and then the rest of 
that money will come in.” 

shall feel like a thief, sir,” said Frank, 
hastily. 

Nonsense, nonsense, my good man! that 
is taking an extreme view of your position. 
Hundreds and hundreds pass through the 
Court without a qualm of conscience. And 
I’m sure I don't see why you should have one. 
The worst that any person can say of you is 
that you rashly undertook a work which in- 
volved a great risk, -and had the additional 
misfortune of a scoundrel for a partner therein. 
There is a wide difference between a dishonest 
trader who takes advantage of the Act in 
order to cheat his creditors, and the man who 


232 


IT isn’t eight; ok, 


is driven thither by real misfortune, as I am 
sure you are. So cheer up! We’ll pull you 
through as well as we can.” 

suppose it must he, sir. I am driven 
to it; but. Court or no Court, law or no law, 
Mr. Marfleet, I shall never reckon myself a 
free man until I’ve paid my debts to the utter- 
most farthing. I’ll do as you say; but it will 
be to gain time and means to pay.” 

The lawyer laughed outright. ^‘You’ll 
change your tone by-and-by, Johnson. When 
you are a free man in the eye of the law, 
you’ll take these things easily, as others do. 
I’ve heard men make similar resolutions about 
paying at a future day, but, though I believe 
they were quite as much in earnest as you 
are now, I can’t say that I ever knew one of 
them fulfil his determination afterwards. So, 
if you please, we will leave that matter for 
your further consideration.” 

At last the day arrived when Trank would 
come home a free man. Some little prepara- 
tion had been made. A few, very few, homely 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 


233 


articles of furniture, nearly all of which were 
given to Mrs. Johnson, were deposited in a 
smaller cottage than they had ever before 
occupied; and there, with eager anxiety, she 
awaited the return of her husband. 

Among those who showed themselves very 
kind to Frank’s wife and children during the 
dark days, was Mrs. Aldridge. Indeed, a 
great part of the furniture of the new home 
came from her; while many a little dainty, 
prepared by her own kind hand, was carried 
by the builder’s warm-hearted wife to the 
bedside of the ailing woman. Her husband 
knew of her doings, but did not choose to 
interfere in any way. Only when he was 
aware that the time of Frank’s release from 
his creditors was at hand did he make any 
remark. 

‘‘So Frank Johnson will be home on Satur- 
day, I hear,” said Mr. Aldridge. “I should 
think he has eaten humble-pie enough to cure 
him of wanting to be a master-workman, for 
some time to come.” 


234 


IT isn’t right; or, 


Now, little Mrs. Aldridge had never ap- 
proved of her husband’s conduct towards 
Frank Johnson; and it is more than probable 
that the well-to-do tradesman had felt sundry 
twinges of conscience on that score, which 
had made him unusually and wilfully blind 
with regard to his wife’s somewhat lavish 
kindness towards Elizabeth. The answer he 
received was curt enough. “ Yes, Frank John- 
son is coming home. More’s the shame and 
pity that he has been absent.” 

^‘Pity, certainly, dear; but no shame on 
anybody’s shoulders but his own.” 

don’t consider there is any resting on 
him, John. It rests on those who plotted to 
ruin him. For,” she added, — a glance at her 
husband having told her that she was getting 
a little too warm, — for I cannot help think- 
ing that Harry Enfield foresaw what would 
come upon Frank, and lent him money, 
through Mr. Bryant, on purpose to be the 
instrument in completing his ruin. I rejoiced 
to see Enfield raised from the mire of sin and 


FKANK JOHNSONS REASON. 


235 


self-indulgence in which he used to delight, 
and acting as though he had a sense of what 
he owed to his family ; but that he is a bitterly 
vindictive man I cannot doubt. I know he 
exulted over the misunderstanding that arose 
between Frank Johnson and Mr. Philips, and 
that, while others were pitying the poor fellow 
who had lost his all, Harry was indulging in 
coarse jokes at Frank’s expense, and sneering 
at his good wife.” 

^‘Nonsense, dear! You women cannot take 
a reasonable view of things. If, however, 
Harry did laugh at Frank, he had cause to 
laugh on the wrong side of his mouth; for, 
after all, the goods did not realize the amount 
of the debt, and Enfield will lose close upon 
a hundred. dollars.” 

heartily glad of it,” said Mrs. Al- 
dridge, in such a vehement tone that her 
husband laughed immoderately, and wished 
to kno^, “Who is vindictive now?” 

The little woman blushed at the implied 
rebuke, and said, “I cfo express myself very 


236 


IT isn't right; or, 


warmly, John; but, really, I cannot feel much 
sympathy with Harry Enfield. If he had 
lost more, I'm afraid I should have thought 
he deserved it.” 

^‘We won't quarrel about it; though I am 
of opinion your sympathy in another quarter 
has cost me money.” 

Oh, John, you surely do not grudge what 
I did for poor Johnson’s family? They were 
in grievous need, and he was a workman who 
served you faithfully.” 

It would have been better for him if he 
had never left me; but don't imagine I grudge 
what you have given to his wife and young- 
sters. They are heartily welcome. I wonder 
what Frank will do? If he should want em- 
ployment, he can have it for the asking.” 

I don't think it likely that the same roof 
will ever cover him and Harry Enfield during 
working-hours, John.” 

^‘Perhaps not. Well, if you can do any 
thing to help the poor destitute family, do it.” 

'^Mrs. Johnson has been very ill. But 


FEANK Johnson’s season. 237 

that her poor baby died as soon as it was 
born, there would now he another great tie 
to her weak hands. It is a mercy that she 
has it not; for how she would have managed 
I do not know.” 

John Aldridge, too, thought it was very 
well the poor baby was taken; and then he 
went out, feeling exceedingly uncomfortable 
as he reflected that he too had done not a 
little towards crushing the hopes and hurting 
the position of his once faithful workman. 
As he walked towards the workshop, he began 
to consider how he could now do Frank a kind- 
ness; not directly, — that, he thought, would 
be like owning that he had done wrong, and 
he was by no means prepared to do that, — 
but in an indirect fashion. 

So Mr. Aldridge, as he pondered, bethought 
himself that Dick Halliday — always Frank’s 
firm friend — would be a suitable agent to 
employ; and to him he resolved to speak on 
the subject when he came for his wages in 
the evening. 


238 


IT isn’t eight; ok, 


CHAPTER XII. 





THE EETURN HOME — A FRIENDS SALUTATION 
— THE FIRST SUNDAY. 

'RANK JOHNSON’S eldest son was 
at the station to meet his father ; and 
it was no small comfort to the poor 
man when he caught sight of his 
boy’s eager face, and observed the 
look of gladness that lighted it up when their 
eyes met. ‘^Oh, father, I am so glad you are 
come! and mother and the rest will be, too,” 
said the lad. 

Poor Frank! This coming home — much 
as he had longed for it — almost unmanned 
him. Though conscious that he had been 
unfortunate, not guilty, — save in respect to 
that one rash undertaking, — he yet felt deeply 
humbled and ashamed. He thought every 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 


239 


person lie met was looking at him; and his 
own self-consciousness made him imagine that 
they regarded him as the bankrupt joiner 
who had crept out of his debts without paying 
them. As he passed onward, led by his son, 
to the new home that had been provided for 
his reception, he met Harry Enfield, who said, 
in a taunting tone, to a man who walked be- 
side him, That is Mr. Philips’s great favour- 
ite. He has just paid his creditors in ” 

Frank heard the beginning of this speech, 
but he did not allow it to be ended; for he 
interrupted the speaker. “You are not speak- 
ing to me, Enfield,” he said, “but at me; and 
it doesn’t show much courage on your part 
to taunt a ruined man. You know I have 
not yet paid my creditors, for you are one 
that I still owe some money to.” 

“I wasn’t talking to you, sir,” was the 
reply. “I want nothing either to say to you 
or to do with you; for your acquaintance is 
too expensive.” 

“ I know you were not talking to me, En- 


240 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


field; but I must say a few words, and you 
shall hear me.” 

Enfield quailed before the determined words 
of the unhappy man, and was in a manner 
constrained to listen. 

“You are well aware,” said Frank, “that 
my creditors have taken every thing, and that, 
but for the kindness of a few good friends, 
my wife and children would have been utterly 
destitute. While I was away, they would 
have starved, Harry Enfield, — yes, starved , — 
but God moved kind hearts to pity and care 
for them. Yet now, poor as I am, with no- 
thing to call my own, I tell you, Harry Enfield, 
that if I am spared in health and strength 
I will pay my remaining debts, — yours among 
the rest.” 

“Oh, you’re free, you know; clean, — white- 
washed, don’t they call it? I’m inexperienced 
in such matters,” was the insolent, taunting 
answer. 

“I shall never feel free while I owe any 
man a penny. The debts will always be debts 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 241 

to me, whatever they may be in law, till I 
have paid them. As to yours, Harry En- 
field, I am very sorry I ever had your money. 
I did not know whose it was until the men 
came and took possession of my goods ; then 
I asked Mr. Bryant. And now, in spite of 
your taunts, I tell you you will be no loser 
by me, if I am spared; and some day you’ll 
be bitterly sorry that you have behaved so 
to a fallen man.” 

“He will be that, Frank,” said a voice 
behind. “It’s only cowardly work to kick a 
man when he is down. But cheer up, lad! 
There are plenty of folks in Millfield who feel 
for you, and will be ready to hold out a friendly 
hand to you again, as I do now.” 

There was no mistaking the voice. It was 
that of honest Dick Halliday; and his sturdy 
hand seized on Frank’s and shook it heartily. 
Enfield slunk away: he never could contend 
with “Downright Dick,” as his mates called 
Halliday. 

Dick surveyed his old companion from head 
Q 21 


242 


IT isn’t bight; or, 


to foot, and then said, Frank, this trouble 
has made an old man of thee. Thou art 
altered. I went to the station to meet you, 
for I wanted a word before you got home, 
— though I dare say you are very anxious to 
see your missus. I was just too late; and I 
should have missed you, but for that fellow’s 
stopping you on the road.” 

“He didn’t stop me; he only said some- 
thing aggravating as I went past : so I stopped 
him, and made him listen to what I had to 
tell him'' 

“That’s right. How I’ll let you know my 
bit of business. Here, my boy, here’s a 
penny for you; run home and tell your 
mother that your father’s coming in a minute.” 

The boy ran off with a glad face; and as 
soon as he was out of hearing, Halliday con- 
tinued: — “I just wanted to ask you, Frank, if 
twenty dollars would be of any use to you; 
because, if it would, I can lend you that 
much.” 

Poor Frank ! Think him not unmanly for 


FRANK JOHNSON’S REASON. 243 

giving way to emotion unusual with men. 
Eemember, he had borne affliction bravely, 
and kept his temper, ^^not easily provoked” 
under much provocation. Yet, now, these 
kind words, this voluntary trust, were too 
much for him. He could only wring Dick's 
hand, and then he fairly sobbed like a child. 

“ Oh, my goodness ! Frank, my dear fellow, 
don’t take on like this, or I shall run away; 
for I can’t bear it,” cried Halliday, who was 
himself not a little moved by the sight of his 
friend’s agitation. 

hadn’t a shilling in the world, Dick,” 
whispered Frank. I had but ten cents left 
when my fare was paid ; and as I came along 
the street I was ashamed to look anybody 
in the face, because I felt as if folks would 
consider me a rogue. But you’ve put new 
heart into me, by showing that you think me 
an honest man, — though I have been a very 
unfortunate one. May God bless you, Dick, 
and keep such troubles as mine far from you 
and yours !” 


244 IT isn’t right; or, 

Thank you, lad. I’m a rough-spoken chap 
enough, but I wi^h you well, and I’ll help 
you if I can. You must let me begin just 
now.” And he pushed a twenty-dollar note 
into Frank’s hand. '‘I can spare it,” he 
added, ^‘for I’ve always kept within bounds, 
as you know.” * 

“I’ll take it, and thank you with all my 
heart.” 

“Now be off home. Won’t your wife wish 
me far enough, for keeping you here so long?” 

“ She will pray God to bless you, Dick, as 
I do.” 

“ She’s a good woman ; and you’ll both have 
many • a happy day yet, in spite of Harry 
Enfield. It is a pity that fellow can’t be 
civil to you, for he has improved wonderfully 
in other things. Mary’s latter married days 
are better than her first ones.” 

“I’m glad of it. He’ll change towards me, 
some time. I told him so five minutes since.” 

The men parted, and with rapid feet Frank 
hastened home. There was a mixture of tears 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 245 

and smiles when he and his wife met; hut 
Frank’s heart ached as he saw her paler, 
thinner, and so much older in this little time. 
But they were together again, and Frank was 
well, though haggard and careworn. Then 
his account of Dick Halliday brought, not a 
ray, but a whole burst, of sunshine into the 
wife’s heart. 

And Frank wondered at the • comfortable 
aspect of the little home, and learned that to 
Mrs. Aldridge much of this was owing. So 
he blessed the warm, \vomanly heart that 
moved its owner to deeds of kindness, and 
almost forgot how her husband had acted 
towards him. 

In the evening Dick Halliday dropped in, 
and on his ruddy face was a look of mystery 
so unusual that Frank was fain to inquire 
what it meant. 

It means, do you want another twenty or 
fifty dollar note? Because, if you do, you 
can be accommodated. It isn’t mine, mind 

you; but a person, a friend of yours, wished 
21 * 


246 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


me to ask you, as he had it to spare, and you 
can have the use of it without interest or 
security.” 

Frank laughed. He could hardly under- 
stand Dick’s manner: so he shook his head, 
and answered, ^^Ho, thank you. I never 
mean to borrow money again through any 
second person. I shall deal with principals 
only.” 

You suspicious fellow! As though I were 
going to lead you into a scrape. Isn’t it a 
shame, Mrs. Johnson?” 

^^Tell me what you mean, Dick. I know 
there’s something under all this joking.” 

^Ht’s no joke, Frank, so far as the money 
goes, for there it is,” and he laid sundry 
bright eagles on the table; “but I don’t see 
that there will be any harm in my telling you 
where it comes from. When I went for my 
wages to-night, Mr. Aldridge kept me wait- 
ing till the last, and then he said, ^ Sit down 
a bit, Halliday. I want a word with you. 
Has Frank Johnson got home yet?’ I told 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 247 

him yes ; and then he asked, * Is he badly off, 
think you?’ I told him I thought you was. 
^Then I should rather think a small sum 
would be a help to him.’ ^ISTo mistake about 
that,’ says I. ^Well, then,’ says Mr. Al- 
dridge, ^ I’ve not forgotten what a good, steady 
workman Frank was in old days ; and, though 
I do think he has acted very foolishly, I 
should like to be of use to him, for the sake 
of those old times. But I know he’s a little 
bit proud; and may-be if I were to offer him 
a trifle of help he’d refuse it : so I want you 
to do it for me.’ ” 

^'Then it was Mr. Aldridge who sent you 
with that money ?” exclaimed Frank, eagerly. 

It was. I’m letting the cat out of the bag ; 
but, as I saw you would have nothing to do 
with the money unless I told you all about it, 
— why, I thought I might as well; and now 
you can do as you think best.” 

I don’t think it was my pride that hindered 
Mr. Aldridge from offering me this kindness 
himself,” said Frank. 


248 IT isn’t bight; oe, 

“Neither do I,” interposed his wife; “for 
Mrs. Aldridge has been very good to me during 
poor Frank’s absence, and she knows that no 
false pride prevented me from accepting her 
help. On the contrary, I was and am truly 
grateful for it.” 

“Perhaps, then, it was his own pride. We 
know that, since Frank set up in business, Mr. 
Aldridge has acted rather queerly, and I’ve no 
doubt he feels sorry now : though he wouldn’t 
own as much to anybody living, I take it that 
his offering you help, through me, comes to the 
same thing. And now, Frank, will you make 
use of this cash?” 

“No, Dick: I shall manage with what you’ve 
lent me; and I hope, if it please Grod, I shall 
not be long in your debt. I shall begin to 
work on Monday morning. I have a job or 
two promised me ; and I’ll work my fingers to 
the bone before it shall be said I’ve wronged 
anybody. I only ask strength from God and 
patience from man, and I’ll yet stand honest 
in ^his respect before both. Ay, even Harry 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 249 

Enfield shall own me an upright man ; though 
I hear that he talks of the money lost through 
me.” 

As to Harry Enfield, nobody would have 
pitied him much if he had lost all his money; 
because it is well understood that his object in 
lending it to you was just to get you into his 
power and ruin you if he could. And as to 
other folks having patience, — why, they must. 
Nobody can make you pay a farthing; and all 
know that you have kept nothing back. I 
must say, these debts — as you call them — 
would lie lightly on my conscience, if I were 
in your place.” 

They never will on mine. I can’t feel that 
it is right for me to leave them unpaid, if I can 
any way manage to earn the means of paying 
them. However, that won’t be just yet.” 

Dick Halliday thought not, and turned 
away to hide the smile he could not suppress 
at the idea of poor Frank beginning to talk of 
paying off his old scores, when he hadn’t a 
penny except what had just been loaned him. 


250 


IT ISNT eight; OE; 


Bather a limited capital to start in life with 
for the second time 1 But Dick would not say 
a word to discourage his friend, though he 
was far from believing in the possibility of 
his hopes being fulfilled. So, heartily wishing 
him every success, Dick took his departure, 
and on his way home called at Mr. Aldridge’s 
to restore the money. 

Frank wouldn’t have it, then?” asked the 
latter. 

^‘Why, sir, a friend of his had been before- 
hand with you. He knew Frank would come 
home with empty pockets: so he lent him 
twenty dollars to make a start with. Frank 
is very much afraid of getting into trouble 
again through borrowing money, and so he 
wouldn’t take what you offered, through me; 
not but what I’m sure he is very much obliged 
to you for the chance.” 

I suppose he’s not likely to seek employ- 
ment here ?” 

^^Ho, sir. He has a job or two to go to.” 

So the matter ended for the time. But the 


frank: Johnson’s reason. 251 

money thus restored to Mr. Aldridge’s pocket 
made him feel much less satisfied with himself 
than he would have been had it gone into 
Frank J ohnson’s. In fact, the worthy builder 
fingered it very much as a child would rattle 
the pennies which he was forbidden yet longed 
to spend. Besides, conscience had been re- 
proaching him; and the getting rid of this 
money, in the manner planned, would have 
acted as a salve to the wounded monitor 
within; whereas now it would remind him 
that he had helped to place poor Frank John- 
son in his present position. 

The Sabbath sun rose on Frank’s poor little 
home, and if by its cheering rays it lighted 
up the dwelling, it also showed its meagre 
belongings in all their scanty poverty: yet, 
thanks to the tidy habits of his wife, there 
were neither dangling cobwebs from its ceil- 
ing, dust coating its walls, nor disarrangement 
of the few necessary articles of furniture it 
contained. She had, indeed, made the best 
of things; and now, reunited to her husband. 


252 


IT isn’t bight; ob, 


she felt thankful, and almost rich, in com- 
paring her present state with the trials she had 
recently passed through. But Frank sighed 
as he glanced around, and said, “This is so 
different from what I hoped for you, my dear 
wife !” 

“We will not look back, Frank: we must 
not. Let us rather think how much worse 
things might have been. Here you were but 
just out of the train, when kind Dick Halli- 
day came to offer you a loan to meet your 
present needs.” 

“Ay, God bless him! I could almost have 
gone down on my knees to thank him.” 

“It was of God’s sending, Frank. And, 
then, when you came home to this place, poor 
as it is, you found us all in health again; and 
a few weeks since I was afraid that when- 
ever you did come there would be no wife to 
receive you.” 

“True: I ought to think of these things. 
God has indeed remembered me in mercy.” 

“ And we shall all go together to the place 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 253 

of worship to thank Him : sha’n’t we, Frank ? 
The children have gone to the Sunday-school, 
all hut Jenny, and we will take her with us. 
She is big enough to behave well in church, 
now.” 

Frank demurred at this. ‘‘1 should like to 
go, but I feel as though I couldn’t bear it. 
I know there will be people who will look at 
me with curious eyes: nay, there may be 
whispers, and some will call me a hypocrite, 
perhaps. I want to get accustomed to meet- 
ing people again, before I go to church.” 

Oh, Frank, surely you can’t mean that. It 
will be false shame that will keep you away, 
if you don’t go. Is it to please men or to 
worship God that we go to the sanctuary? 
Is it right to consider what men will say, or 
to do what God, who sees our hearts, will ap- 
prove?” 

^‘1 know it isn’t right to let such things 

move me ; but I’m only a man, after all, and ” 

Frank Johnson must not forsake his old 

reason. It used to be always enough for you 
22 


254 IT isn’t eight; oe, 

to be convinced that a thing wasn't righty 
and then nobody could move you to take 
part in it. And, surely, if you feel that this 
is a weakness, it must be the way to get 
weaker still if you yield to it. Oh, Frank, I 
have reckoned on your coming home for every 
reason that a wife could have, but for none 
more than this, — that we should once more 
kneel together in the house of prayer.” 

will go. It isn’t right to stay at home 
because of what men may say or think: so 
we’ll go together.” 

And go they did ; and it comforted them, 
and strengthened them too, as the true wor- 
ship of God always does ^‘comfort and help 
the weak-hearted.” And though there might 
be, and undoubtedly were, some who cast 
contemptuous looks at Frank, and wondered 
‘Ghat he could show his face out of doors 
after beggaring his family by his folly, and 
not paying people all their dues,” there were 
others who were glad that Frank had not for- 
gotten his way to God’s holy temple, though 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 255 

tie had long been prevented from worshipping 
there. 

Frank and his good wife had endured much 
mental and bodily suffering, and had felt that 
it is only in time of adversity that we become 
sensible of the need for that Friend who is 
above all earthly friends and “who sticketh 
closer than a brother.” And Frank Johnson 
said, when he re-entered his poor home, “I 
am glad I went with you this morning. It 
has done me good. God grant me grace, for 
Christ’s sake, to walk in his ways, whatever 
may happen to me.” 


256 


IT isn’t eight; or, 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE LAST CREDITOR SATISFIED, AND EVIL 
OVERCOME WITH GOOD. 

MOXG- the Millfield folks were 
many who felt deeply for Frank 
Johnson, and who showed their 
sympathy by giving him employ- 
ment, — not, of course, large pieces 
of work, but such as he could do with small 
outlay, — and by paying him ready money. 
So, by dint of very hard work, Frank made 
something more than a living, and gradually 
got together a few articles of furniture. Then 
he paid his friend Dick Halliday the twenty 
dollars ; and (but this was v&ry soon after his 
return to Millfield) he had a visit from Mrs. 
Aldridge, which took a great load of anxiety 
off his mind. And this was how it came about. 



FRANK Johnson’s reason. 257 

After Mr. Aldridge had tried to aid Frank 
by employing Dick Halliday as his agent, and 
failed in effecting his purpose, he took counsel 
with his wife as to the best means of bringing 
about what he wished. She — quick-witted 
and kind as usual — hit upon a scheme at 
once, and herself went to propose it. She 
chose a time when she was sure of finding 
Frank at home, and, after a little preliminary 
conversation, she introduced the subject, which 
was rendered all the easier by the sight of 
Frank’s boys, who were employed, the one in 
doing a sum, the other in teaching little Jenny 
the alphabet. 

^'It is a great pity they are not at school,” 
she said: “they are just at an age when boys 
g^n so much.” 

She had touched a tender point with Frank, 
and she knew it; for the father sighed, and 
said, “I know that too well, Mrs. Aldridge. 
My great wish was to give my lads good 
schooling; and that is the one thing I can’t 
do at present. They are losing sadly, and it 

R 22«- 


258 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


troubles me not a little to think that, while 
I may make up almost any thing else, I can’t 
— by any future pains or expense, if it should 
be in my power — make up for this wasted 
time.” 

^‘It need not be wasted, unless you wish it,” 
said Mrs. Aldridge. ‘^My husband has sent 
me on purpose to say that, if you will allow 
him to do so, he will gladly bear the expense 
of your children’s schooling, at any school 
you may name, for the next twelve months, 
as he thinks it a great pity such promising 
boys should vrant it. He is a father himself, 
and, though Mr. Aldridge has his little pecu- 
liarities, he sympathizes very deeply with the 
anxieties which parents feel on behalf of their 
children.” Mrs. Aldridge saw a refusal in 
Frank’s eye; for we must own that he had 
his weaknesses. He was stubborn, after his 
fashion, and proud too. And a false pride 
w^uld probably have hindered him from ac- 
cepting this timely offer, if the kind-hearted 
woman who thus came with friendly proposals 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 259 

had given him an opportunity to utter it, or 
had opposed pride to pride. But she did not. 
She continued, rapidly, as was her wont, — 
^‘Mr. Aldridge has not forgotten the days 
when you served him so well, Johnson; and 
now he would so much like to be of service 
to you in return, through your children, if 
you will but let him. You don’t know how 
glad it will make him if I go back and say 
that you accept his offer. And, besides, I 
don’t mind telling you that my husband wishes 
in some degree to make amends for other 
matters. Am I to say any more, Frank?” 

The good little woman looked up in Frank’s 
face, as if she vmuld tell him with that look 
that she knew her husband had been some- 
what ungenerous to his old workman, but 
would he compel her to speak of this weak- 
ness of which he was ashamed? 

Frank’s heart was far too warm, and his 
disposition too generous, to withstand such 
words and such an appealing look. Besides, 
had not his old master and his wife hit on the 


260 


IT isn’t right ; or, 


thing above all others which he could most 
willingly and thankfully accept ? So he turned 
to her, and answered, — 

^^No, Mrs. Aldridge: please to explain no- 
thing. I understand exactly what you mean, 
and I’m very, very grateful. If there has been 
any thing at all unpleasant between me and 
Mr. Aldridge, you did more than enough to 
wipe it away when my poor wife was ill and 
I was absent. It is a long time since Mr. Al- 
dridge and I had a word together; but if he’s 
at home I’ll go just now and tell him that I 
thank him and will gladly accept his kind 
offer.” 

“ Do, Frank,” returned Mrs. Aldridge, re- 
joiced at her success, ^‘And I shall stay and 
talk to your wife while you are away.” 

She did stay; and those two true women 
talked things over' together, and Mrs. Al- 
dridge told Mrs. Johnson, in confidence, what a 
capital husband and father her John was, only 
he had his little crotchets — as who has not? 
and that she endeavoured to chime in with 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 261 

them as far as possible, instead of provoking 
him by feminine lectures and direct opposi- 
tion. And,” she said, he is sure to see if 
he has been wrong, and, of his own accord, to 
make amends after a time.” Then she in- 
formed Mrs. Johnson that Mary Enfield would 
have liked to come to see her in her season 
of trouble and sickness, but dared not, on ac- 
count of Harry being so bitter against Frank ; 
but that she always hoped they would some 
time get to be friends. 

Mrs. Johnson, on her part, informed Mrs. 
Aldridge that her Frank’s chief fault was 
his being proud in his peculiar way. ^'Not, 
you know, as some people are; for he’s hum- 
ble enough in most things; only ” 

And here, as she rather came short of words 
to express her meaning, Mrs. Aldridge nodded 
her head sharply, and said, “ I know. I under- 
stand him exactly. I was afraid that very feel- 
ing would hinder him from accepting my hus- 
band’s offer.” 

“And it would, if Mr. Aldridge had offered 


262 IT isn't eight; ok, 

it himself; or they would not have understood 
each other.” 

No : my John, with the best intentions in 
the world, would have done it awkwardly.” 
And the little woman clapped her hands, and 
laughed at the superior diplomacy she had 
displayed in dealing with Frank's pride. 

When Mrs. Aldridge rose to go, Mrs. John- 
son begged her to tell Mary Enfield that Frank 
would be sure to pay the rest of the money 
some time, and that she had never thought 
her unkind for not coming, because she knew 
how things were between their husbands. In 
the mean while, Frank and his old master had 
met, and Mr. Aldridge, glad that the former 
was willing to receive his kindness in a right 
spirit, had shaken him by the hand, and in- 
sisted on his staying a little while with him and 
taking a meal together. And thus the hearts 
of the two men were opened. Frank told Mr. 
Aldridge all his troubles ; and, Mr. Aldridge's 
conscience pricking him the more, he was 
moved to say even more than was his wont; 


FRANK JOHNSONS REASON. 


263 


and very earnestly and truly did he sympa- 
thize with his former workman. So they set- 
tled about the children going to school, — the 
same school Mr. Aldridge’s own boys at- 
tended, though Frank at first protested against 
so much expense. And, lastly, the wealthy 
builder, by way of crowning the occasion, 
said, “Johnson, I know you’ll sometimes be put 
about for a bit of wood to go on with, while 
money is scarce; but don’t let the want of cash 
stop you. Come to my place and tell me what 
you need, and I’ll let you have it. I’ll trust 
you, and welcome.” 

Every atom of Frank’s pride had vanished 
before this ; and now he found it hard work to 
thank Mr. Aldridge, who, for his part, wished 
to avoid thanks altogether. When Frank was 
about to start for home, his old master said he 
would walk with him and bring Mrs. Aldridge 
back. Thus the two husbands and wives met 
on Frank’s threshold, and all felt brimful of 
kindness as they parted. 

It was owing to that last proposal of Mr. 


264 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


Aldridge’s that Frank was enabled to get on 
better, far better, than he had expected; and 
his incessant industry could not fail to produce 
its fruits. A little incident which occurred 
a couple of months after his return home, pro- 
duced a favourable impression on some who 
had hitherto judged him harshly, and among 
the rest his former friend, Mr. Philips. 

The owner of Sunny Lee had come back 
with his family to Millfield, and he was just 
then full of a plan he had formed for building 
a number of model cottages for working-men. 
This project he discussed with a gentleman 
who had acted as his steward during his 
absence from Sunny Lee. Mr. Burnley, the 
gentleman alluded to, heartily approved of the 
plan, and said, /Mf you have not fixed on a 
person to do the joiners’ work, may I ask you 
to give it, or a part of it, to poor Frank John- 
son, who is struggling hard to get his head 
above water again ?” 

Something very like a frown appeared on 
Mr. Philips’s face as he heard this; and he 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 265 

answered, somewhat shortly, “ That man has 
disappointed me once, — you know all about 
that, — and he has ruined himself by a wild- 
goose scheme, by which he expected to make 
a fortune, and has since been figuring in the 
Bankruptcy Court. I don’t employ persons 
who have appeared there.” 

“Let me tell you something before you 
decide. I was making some alterations in my 
place, two or three weeks since, and, believing 
the poor fellow was rather to be pitied than 
blamed, I determined on giving him the work, 
though I had lost, or thought I had lost, some 
money by him. Johnson was quite glad of 
the work; and, knowing his position, I would 
have paid him a little money as he went on ; 
but he said, ^ I was in hopes you would give 
me this job, Mr. Burnley, because, though I 
must take part of the money for it, I should 
like to leave some towards paying what I owe 
you.’ You know I could not claim a farthing; 
but the honest fellow insisted on giving me a 

portion of what I had considered lost; and I 
23 


266 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


don’t doubt that be will carry out the resolu- 
tion he has expressed, — namely, to be a free 
man, not only in the eye of the law, but so far 
as his conscience is concerned.” 

^'Then you think he means to pay off his 
old debts ?” 

I’m sure he will, if he can do it by hard 
work and self-denial. His old master, Al- 
dridge, has come to, and sends Johnson’s chil- 
dren to school, besides making up for past dif- 
ferences by help in the way of business.” 

‘H’ll send for Frank Johnson this very 
day,” said Mr. Philips, energetically. ‘‘He’ll 
turn out a man after my own heart yet; and, 
hard as his past experience has been to bear, 
it will be the making of him.” 

Mr. Burnley laughed good-humouredly. “ I 
thought,” said he to himself, when Mr. Philips’s 
back was turned, ^Hhat little tale of mine 
would make things right for Frank at Sunny 
Lee.” 

Frank was greatly astonished when Mr. 
Philips sent a message requesting him to go 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 267 

to his house that evening; hut he did not 
hesitate to comply with it. When he entered 
the familiar room, he found Mr. Philips with 
plans and drawings before him. 

^^Oh, Johnson, here you are,” said that 
gentleman, looking up. ^‘You’ve had your 
troubles since we met last; and so have 1.” 

Frank assented, and ventured to ask if 
Miss Philips were better. 

Yes, thank you : she can bear to breathe 
her native air again now. Is your good wife 
well?” 

Frank told him she was as well as usual. 

^^That is right. Now, you remember what 
I said when you were here last. I blamed 
you for not being more frank with me, when 
you knew I wished to serve you.” 

^^Yes, sir; and I felt very sorry that any 
thing had happened to cause you to blame 
me. Only, Mr. Philips, I hope you will ex- 
cuse me naming this : I had no wish to conceal 
any thing from you; but you were the con- 
tractor, and I was the plain mechanic, and the 


268 


IT isn’t eight; oe, 


difference between your position and mine 
made me feel as though I was taking a liberty 
in intruding my affairs so much upon your 
notice. I have been rash and to blame in 
many things, and too proud, perhaps: still, 
I never meant to be otherwise than straight- 
forward.” 

“1 quite believe you; and so we’ll let by- 
gones be by-gones. I have heard from Mr. 
Burnley that you want to pay your creditors 
in full. I like your determination, and wish 
to help you to carry it out, — not by lending 
you money, but by giving you work.” 

Frank expressed his thanks, and then he 
and Mr. Philips went deep into plans and 
particulars. Terms were agreed upon, and 
Johnson’s heart was made glad by the inform- 
ation that the money for the work would 
be paid him in six instalments, instead of 
nearly all together or in halves. Thus he 
would always have money to go on with, and, 
as he would need to employ other workmen, 
to pay wages. 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 269 

Frank went home rejoicing. ^'Oh/’ said 
he to his wife, ^'it isn’t right to despair, how- 
ever dark the clouds may be that hang over 
us. I am already beginning to feel that my 
very troubles past will soon look like bless- 
ings, as I glance back upon them.” 

As may be supposed, Harry Enfield viewed 
Frank’s improving prospects with no grati- 
fication. He grumbled about the money still 
owing to himself, and sneered at Mr. Aldridge 
for being duped by such a smooth-tongued 
swindler. ‘‘He’ll be making another break 
of it, by-and-by,” said he, “and then Mr. 
Aldridge will find out, as I’ve done, that 
Frank Johnson knows how to take care of 
number one. He’s paid an odd sum or two, 
I hear, to make folks believe that he means 
to cash up all ; but he knows better than that. 
He’s doing it to gain credit and get a good 
purse ; then, some fine morning, we shall hear 
that he’s off to join his old friend Bateman.” 

“Hold thy noise, lad,” interposed Dick Hal- 
liday . “ Our boss has a right to do what he 

23 « 


270 


IT isn’t right; or, 


likes with his own; and he’s shown himself a 
good-hearted man at the bottom. As to the 
money thou makest such a fuss about, we all 
know what it means. Thou’rt well pleased 
to have something to call Frank Johnson ill 
names about. That privilege is worth more 
than the money to thee. You'll be sorry 
when he pays you; for then you won’t have 
a thing to sneer about.” 

^‘If my head never aches till he pays me,” 
growled Harry, “I shall never have that ache 
again.” 

“Thy head seems sound enough now-a-days; 
for thou doesn’t muddle it. I wish thy heart 
was as good as thy head and thy hands are. 
That’s the worst wish I wish thee,” said im- 
movable Dick Halliday, as he shouldered his 
tools and marched out of the shop. 

Frank heard of Enfield’s sneers; but they 
moved him not. His old words, isn't 
right in Harry: he’ll be sorry some day,” were 
all he said. But he worked on, ever keeping 
oefore him his determination to prove himself 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 271 

honest in the sight of all men. It was slow 
work, and Frank had many drawbacks; for 
of course his family must be proyided for out 
of his earnings, and his gains were sometimes 
but small, and allowed of no saving. But at 
length the time did come when he was enabled 
to carry into effect his cherished purpose. 
Partly in work, partly in money, he had 
found means to pay his creditors, or was 
ready to pay them, in full. Mr. Philips, be- 
tween whom and Frank perfect confidence 
now existed, expressed a wish to accompany 
him on the pleasant errand. 

People were pleased, but not surprised, at 
being paid, for Frank’s conduct had prepared 
them for this; and congratulations, praise 
and good wishes were showered upon him on 
all sides. 

There was just one more call to make, and 
that was for the purpose of giving Harry En- 
field his money, with interest thereupon to 
the last fraction; for here Frank’s ‘Hit of 
pride” peeped out, and he would not have 


272 


IT isn’t eight; ok, 


been a penny short for the world. Frank 
was at first inclined to send the money; but 
Mr. Philips urged him to see Harry Enfield: 
so they went to his house, and were admitted. 

There was a half-sneering, half-defiant look 
on Harry’s face as he saw his visitors. “ Sit 
down, gentlemen,” said he, — with no slight 
emphasis on the last word. ^‘Mr. Philips, 
you turned me out of your house once; but 
I’m happy to receive you under my roof, 
humble as it is.” 

very comfortable home, Enfield,” was 
the quiet answer. “I congratulate you on 
having such a one, and on showing the desire 
to keep it.” 

Harry coloured a little. He was reminded 
of that winter’s night when his former poor 
home was burned to ashes, and his wife and 
children owed the means of procuring neces- 
saries to the bounty of Mr. Philips and others 
like him in liberality. ‘‘Well,” he said, “it 
is an improvement on old times.” 

“Which it is best to forget, for some rea- 


FEANK Johnson’s season. 273 

sons. I prefer to think of you as you are, 
and not as you were, Enfield.” 

There was nothing in Mr. Philips’s manner 
which could offend, and Enfield knew not how 
to answer. Neither did Frank Johnson give 
him time. I have called to pay what I owe 
you, Harry,” he said. 

“Oh, you owe me nothing,” was the care- 
less answer. “You went through the Court 
and cleared off old scores. Tve no claim.” 

“ I am glad to say that I have cleared off 
old scores by paying a hundred cents in the 
dollar. You are the only one who has not 
received it; and I am here to give you yours, 
principal and interest, to the last penny.” 
Frank laid the money down on the table ; and 
surely it was an honest pride which made him 
draw^himself up and stand erect before the 
man who had for years taunted, insulted and 
slandered him. 

Harry’s old stubborn nature was not yet 
subdued. He muttered something about it’s 

being a good thing to have friends with long 

s 


274 


IT isn’t eight; or, 


purses. you think I have dipped into 

any purse but that which held my own honest 
earnings, you do me a great injustice. I have 
had friends, but they have given me work, 
— not money; and it is through the strength 
with which God has blessed me that I have 
been enabled to earn the means of paying you 
and others. By the sweat of my brow I have 
won back the name of an honest man. Please 
to give me my receipt, and let me go.” 

^^Eun and fetch a stamp, Harry,” said En- 
field to his boy; and the bright-eyed lad laid 
down his book and darted ofi*. Not a word 
was spoken during his absence, and only He 
who sees all hearts knows how the father was 
struggling with himself at the time. His obsti- 
nate spirit was not easy to tame. When the lad 
came back, his father bade him write oul the 
receipt, and then he himself signed it. Mr. 
Philips looked admiringly at young Harry’s 
bold penmanship; and Enfield, who was very 
proud of his son, observed, He beats his father 
a long way, Harry does.” 


FEANK Johnson’s eeason. 275 

Frank and Mr. Philips were on their feet 
to go, — they were, in fact, turning towards 
the door, — when Enfield’s voice stopped them. 

Frank,” he said, “stay a minute. You know • 
what I am pretty well, and can guess- that 
it costs me something to own myself wrong. 
But, after all, it isn’t right, as you used to say, 
to let an old grudge last forever. You are an 
honest man; and I’m ashamed of myself; and 
that’s all about it.” 

Frank made no more ado, but, seizing 
Harry’s hand, he shook it heartily, whereupon 
Enfield observed, as he returned the pressure, 
“One thing that made me shy of owning that 
I had done wrong by you was this : I felt that 
if you had behaved to me as I have done to 
you for years past, I never could have forgiven 
you.” 

“It doesn’t always do to measure another 
man’s corn in your own bushel,” replied Frank, 
illustrating his meaning by the use of a homely 
proverb. 

“I see that; but I don’t know how you can 


276 


IT isn’t eight; or. 


manage to keep your temper with and forgive 
a fellow who has been so provoking as I have.” 

“But I do,” said Mr. Philips. “Frank has 
tried to do what is right; and he has been 
in the habit of going to a certain Book for 
guidance. By his conduct to you, he has 
proved how possible it is, by divine grace, to 
obey the command, 'Be not overcome of evil, 
but overcome evil with good.’ ” 

There was something still on Mr. Philips’s 
mind. “Enfield,” he said, after a brief pause, 
“ I am told you have often wished to know who 
saved your children’s lives at the risk of his 
own.” 

“I have that; and I tell the truth when I 
say that there is nothing I would not do for 
that man, if I knew him.” 

“I have known all along, Enfield.” 

“Oh, Mr. Philips, you don’t mean it! Was 
it you?” 

“It was not; but I am bound to secrecy, or 
I would tell you. May I, Frank?” he whis- 
pered, turning to Johnson. 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 277 

tell him, now that we are friends 
said Frank. Harry, I should never have 
named it to any living soul, but Mr. Philips 
found it out by coming to my house. I was 
lucky enough to be the instrument, in God’s 
hands, of preserving those dear little things 
from ” 

A great cry broke from Harry Enfield. 

“Oh, Frank, can you really forgive me? 
What a wretch I have been to you ! Why 
didn’t you tell me ? I’d have bit my tongue off 
before I’d have said a taunting word. How 
shall I ever make you amends?” 

The man sobbed — yes, fairly sobbed — with 
deep emotion; and the scene which followed 
may better be imagined than described. 
Harry would have had Frank take back not 
only the money he had brought, but would 
have placed all he had in his possession. “ It 
couldn’t be in better hands,” he said. 

Frank drew himself up at the mention of 
money, and Mr. Philips interposed. “This 

man is prouder than you would imagine, 
Y 24 


278 IT isn't right; or, 

Enfield," lie said. “Pride kept him from 
owning the service he had rendered you; and 
not only pride, but, what is better, principle, 
would keep him from accepting any other 
amends than that you have already made. 
I believe his great wish has been to convince 
you and others that he deserves your good 
will and respect. Grive him these, let enmity 
cease between you, and he will be well con- 
tented." 

It is needless to say that Mr. Philips well 
expressed Frank's thoughts for him, or that 
this interview between the men who had so 
long been estranged made them friends for 
life. Their good wives rejoiced that they 
were once more permitted neighbourly inter- 
course. Cheery Mrs. Aldridge laughed and 
cried by turns when she heard Mary Enfield's 
version of the story, and heartily hoped that 
Harry’s name would be mixed up with no 
more brawls. 

Frank has gone on steadily. “Not sloth- 
ful in business,” and all the wiser for past 


FRANK Johnson’s reason. 


279 


troubles, be bas won tbe prosperity wbicb bis 
honesty and industry deserved. They occupy 
tbe borne in wbicb they were established 
when Frank first set up for himself; and 
Frank’s dream is in part reaHzed, for a stout 
maiden helps in tbe household work. 

Mr. Aldridge is not jealous of bis old work- 
man, — though there is a likebbood that Harry 
Enfield will desert tbe bench in bis shop and 
join Frank Johnson. He bas ofiered to throw 
bis little capital and bis best energies into 
tbe business; and Mr. Philips thinks that 
Frank may safely try him as bis partner. Tbe 
two would well like to have Dick Halliday 
with them also; but our old acquaintance — as 
plain-spoken as ever — says be shall stick 
to bis first employer so long as be can drive 
a nail. Besides,” be jocosely adds, ^^wbo can 
tell whether Frank will start speculating in 
sluice-making, or Harry betake himself to 
tbe Wbeatebeaf again? I’ll keep my bit 
of brass where it is.” They know what this 
means, well enough. It is just this: — that 


280 


IT isn’t right. 


he will not leave Mr. Aldridge for anybody 
living. 

I fancy the new firm of ^'Johnson & En- 
field” will prosper; for Harry has adopted 
Frank’s reason, and says, by God’s help, he’ll 
not do any thing if his conscience tells him 
that It isn’t Eight.” 


the end. 



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